


Bed of Roses, Path of Thorns

by Spadesjade



Series: Tom and Agnes [4]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Arguing, F/M, Infidelity, Partner Betrayal, Religious Content, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 164,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2687951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spadesjade/pseuds/Spadesjade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Formerly titled "The Seventh Commandment," which, ironically, is not "thou shall not commit adultery," but "thou shall not steal." Lots of good suggestions, brought about this inspiration. Thank you for your help!</p><p>Tom was unfaithful. Is this the end of Tom and Agnes' marriage?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This deals with some very sensitive issues. And there is some very religious content involved because Agnes is a devout, practicing Catholic. If that bothers you, then perhaps you shouldn't read this. Just giving you a head's up.

There is nothing worse than this. 

She stands with her hands pressed to the sides of her face, steadying herself, as if she could reach and touch her brain, massage it into understanding. But there is no understanding, there is only shock. Just pure cold shock, like she is frozen after being splashed with icy water. She literally cannot move.

Behind her, she hears, as if magnified by some invisible microphone, Tom's shuffle. He waits for her reaction, wanting to prepare. Will she scream? Cry? Attack him? The last one, yes...she somehow knows it will come to that. At one point she will snap and strike, although she is against violence, she knows it is no different, a man hitting a woman or a woman hitting a man. A decent man who doesn't believe in hitting women. 

"How many times?"

She doesn't recognize her own voice. It is high and strained and completely not her. It came from somewhere else, there is no way that sound came from her.

"Once." It's the first word he's spoken since the "yes" she got from her demand.

Slowly her hands drop, but it is purely from strain, not from any semblance of regained control. 

What if she'd never asked? The thought brings suffocating terror. Tom would never have told her. Never. The fact that she found out on her own, that she confronted him, feeling stupid and guilty for being jealous and suspicious, but not able to calm the angry niggling voices in her head that insisted that everything didn't add up right, that she had to ask, she needed confirmation.

This was not the confirmation she wanted.

Her trust in him had been so absolute. It had to be, after all the effort he endured in courting her, winning her, convincing her to marry him, knowing how she was, knowing what she believed, knowing she would sacrifice and expect the same from him where necessary. That pressure on him, on her, to maintain the balance, to be his support and yet let him put her first above anything and everything. People didn't do that anymore. Her own parents managed forty-some years, his were divorced, how was he supposed to know how to do that? It was too much to ask of him, she tried to push him away but he insisted, he proved himself strong enough and willing. Her submission required a trust that was monumental. He was her head, her ship mast, her rudder, guiding her through this life she chose to have with him, a more traditional marriage than was properly known these days, her willing to bend to his will as the head of a family. 

But they were not a family. Years trying but no results. Something in her menstrual cycle, nothing seemed to work. Now she was too old. 

Now she understood why.

The feeling of that trust cracking steals her breath. Pulling back a curtain and finding maggots and rot underneath layers of pristine cleanliness. A house crumbling under her feet that she thought was strong. She can't process it, it's too much--

Abruptly, she walks to the bedroom. She shuts the door behind her. It won't help but it's a defense mechanism, some preliminary strike. The crack isn't fully felt yet, she is numb as she sits on the edge of the bed, listening to the dull sound of her name (Aggie? Aggie! Agnes, please!) through the wood that muffles it, the panic in his voice, the sick glee she feels at his terror, the only breath of power she has in this situation. 

She already locked the door. He's not getting in. But still, she gets up and pulls a chair over, tilting it and shoving the top under the doorknob. It wouldn't be unlike Tom to let himself get so worked up he could break it down. Drama is in the man's blood and no little thing like reality is going to prevent him from acting on it. 

Her brain, attempting to re-center itself in reality, plays the last few minutes over.

"Tom, is there something going on I should know about?"

"You said you were filming, but there are pictures here of you..."

"Whatever her name is, I don't really care at this moment..."

"Did you have sex with her?"

"Did you cheat on me?"

Tom's face as he squirms in discomfort, trying to collect his thoughts, framing what he wants to say in just the right way so as not to lie, but not to tell the truth. Not until she has him by the throat and asks point blank.

"Yes."

The crack reaches the foundation. The pain that erupts explodes from her lungs in a gasp. Suddenly she can't breathe, and the attempt causes her to hiccup violently. It takes her a minute to realize that she is shrieking out sobs and had somehow turned around and is pounding the bed with both fists. 

The knock on the door gets louder. Not knocking, pounding. Dully, her name comes through the buffering wood. 

The obscenities that suddenly explode from her lips are not directed entirely at him. Not intentionally, anyway. Anger has come first, hot on the heels of her initiated meltdown. Somewhere along the line she got up and went to the door and started beating on it, although why she doesn't just go out into that room and let herself beat those fists against the cause of this implosion of her life, she will wonder later. Then, wrists and hands both aching, she goes back to the bed, climbs into it and pulls the covers over her so completely she is cocooned.

The sobbing commences. She doesn't know how long it lasts. Her brain is not on her side, throwing continuous scenes of his face at her from so many moments in their relationship, nothing in order, his face when he first kissed her, his face from yesterday morning when he kissed her goodbye, the sweet moments, the romantic moments, the moments when she would remember how much she loved him. The moments when she started to realize that living with him was so different from knowing him from afar. The way his face looked when it was so close to her she could see every single freckle. The shape of his lips, their feel. The time she realized how it was starting to get common-place, and she stopped being jealous of the fans, knowing they had no real clue, not one, and feeling a bit envious of the magic they still experienced. How much she loved his damn hands, the hours spent playing with them, much to his amusement, although he got her back when it was his turn to play with his favorite part of her body. The knowledge that familiarity does breed contempt, and that the honeymoon was over, and that romantic love was not immortal, that married love involved more choice and will than she had ever imagined. The realization that she could get sick of him and want to be away from him, that he probably felt that way about her at least as much. The bits and bobs of herself, body and soul, she had to show him, the humiliation of someone knowing you that well and then realizing it went both ways. Were they stuck with each other? Was it inevitable?

She starts to twist over in her brain what it must have been like for him. How he must have seen it. How she should never have let it get this far, that she should have cut him off early, knowing how impossible it was for a man of the modern world to commit to the kind of marriage she wanted, she believed in.

Because she does not believe in divorce. Not for anything. She will not leave him, but now...

Now she is stuck. With an adulterer.

She no longer hears Tom trying to get into the room. She wonders, perversely, what he is doing. She wonders if he will try again, and when her sobs pass and become soft hiccups, she finds herself wondering what the hell to do. In spite of crying herself to exhaustion, she is not sleepy. Now all she wants is someone to comfort her, to stroke her hair and her back and tell her reasonable things to get her brain working properly again. But the one person she needs to do that is the cause of all this misery. She feels like a part of her has been severed and this only leaves her confused and flustered and unable to settle, even into the misery. Angry that she has suddenly gone into waiting mode, she makes herself get up and go to the bathroom -- luckily locked in the bedroom suite with her. She drinks a glass full of the disgusting tap water, and looks at her face, eyelids nearly swollen shut, the skin around her eyes gone pale with bright red freckles, as if she'd been sprayed with mace. She has never looked like this before, not once in her forty-six years. 

Her husband has destroyed her.

This brings a fresh bout of tears. She crawls back into bed, cries again with less passion, but the same amount of pain. She covers her entire body, her head, with the thick comforter but leaves the lights on in the bedroom. She cries, and cries some more, her brain continuing to be cruel, to show her what she has lost.

What Tom took away.

Rage keeps her from falling asleep. Every time she thinks her eyelids might be drooping shut and a sleepy haze attempts to steal her away from the agony, something causes the flush to rise and her adrenaline to pump and she is awake again. 

At four in the morning, she gives up. It has been hours, maybe seven? How did so much time pass when it felt like it was going so slow? Maybe she did doze off in between somewhere, her poor brain too mixed up to tell the difference between real and dream. Maybe she was dreaming now, she tells herself. Maybe all of it was wrong. Tom is just away filming. She is going to go out into the living room and find her charging phone rife with messages from him, and she will call him and tell him about her disturbing dream, and he will comfort her.

She sees the chair wedged under the doorknob. At least that much was real. She pulls the chair away, unlocks the door --

And Tom's body slumps at her feet.

It takes her a minute to process. He appears to have been sitting with his left side flush against the door. He apparently fell asleep, and the loss of his support made him tumble over. The movement rudely awakens him, and his limbs sprawl out so wide in an attempt to recover that she can't get past for a moment. Waiting patiently, and all the while thinking how this is such a Jane Eyre moment, a moment she should somehow be treasuring as there has to be few women in the world whose husband would be so dramatic for them, she wills her emotions to dull as a self-defense mechanism. She finds a very brief opening as consciousness and misery play havoc with his brain and she slips past.

Where the hell she's going, she has no idea. Maybe to the kitchen to get a glass of milk, take her morning medication. She always takes her anxiety and thyroid medications first thing in the morning. Her feet know the way better than she does and she lets them have control.

"Darling," comes Tom's sleepy, befuddled voice.

"Fuck you," she mutters half-heartedly.

He appears in the kitchen entrance. She feels it but doesn't look. She gets out a small glass and some milk. Milk makes everything go down smoothly. 

"Please talk to me," he croaks. How the fangirls (even at forty-three he still has rabid fangirls, although fewer than he did at thirty-three) would swoon to hear him that way, she thinks bitterly. "Say something."

"Fuck you," she says louder, still not looking at him. She swallows her pills, puts the milk away. No eating for an hour if she wants the thyroid medication to do its job. She turns to leave.

Tom blocks the exit.

"You haven't said --"

"I said," she starts, her voice rising, "FUCK! YOU!"

Her hand shoots out. There is no way in hell she is going to actually hurt him -- Tom is too well built, in too good of a shape to even be bruised by her hands, as abnormally large for a woman as they might be. She just doesn't have the muscles to inflict any real damage. It's more likely she will hurt herself against the hard muscle. But dammit he is going to get out of her way if she has to kick him in the balls to make him do it. 

He flinches as her arm makes contact with his chest, and steps back, letting her pass. 

She goes back to the bedroom and shuts the door in his face. She doesn't lock it this time, curious as to what he will do. The glorious numbness that comes after a complete emotional breakdown that was sustained over a nearly-impossible long period of time has left her buzzed. Almost drowsy. Her brain is doing anything and everything it can to keep itself from going stark raving mad, even if it means going a bit nuts just to let the tension out. 

He knocks. She almost laughs at the absurdity of it. "Please let me in," he pleads. He always pleads so nicely, in that pretty accent. She'd gotten so used to his voice that it had ceased to have any magical effect on her. Now there are new tones -- he's never used these before, at least not in anything that wasn't being filmed.

"Fuck you," she mutters. It seems to be all she can say.

Then, after a significant pause, he turns the doorknob. Hesitantly, she sees from where she sits on the edge of the bed, from the slow way it moves before her. Finding it open, he pushes the door forward and peeks through. She just stares, feeling like a jungle cat that can't move or else it will scare off its prey. 

The fear on his face makes her feel...empowered. The desire to see him suffer is so great it's almost arousing. The desire to transfer her pain, her internal emotional bleeding, back onto its source suddenly drives her. It makes her calm. She will later realize that this is childish and stupid and able to accomplish nothing good, but at the moment she is at the mercy of her hormones. 

"Can you say anything else?" he asks, his tone wavering, his fingers nervously playing with each other. She stares, wanting to burn him down like one of the Twin Towers. Make him stand and burn and then crumple into nothing. She wishes, not for the first time, that she had a mutant superpower, spikes like porcupine quills, only made of metal, coming out of her skin. Keeping anything and everything away from her. She envisions it in her head. 

She sighs. "You don't know what you've done, do you?" she manages, her voice half-gone. A hoarse, frog-like and totally unattractive croak. She would be embarrassed to let him hear her like that as little as five years ago, but now she wants to be the wicked witch of the west and cackle like a madwoman. She wants to scare him so badly he pisses his pants. 

He approaches, although there is not much distance between the door and the foot of the bed where she's perched. Slowly, so slowly, he kneels down at her feet, not daring to close that last foot and a half distance between them. The lowering of himself, so damn tall as he is, is more than symbolic. He hasn't submitted himself to her like this (in a non-sexual way, anyway) since he proposed to her. 

Funny, he had the same look of trepidation on his face then as he does now. The thought makes an eyebrow rise, and Tom mistakes it for interest. He inches closer, fingers wanting to touch her knee, but he is terrified of her stone wall. She has never cut herself off from him like this, and he doesn't know what to do with it. 

"I do know," he says, his voice a plea. He was always so good at kissing her ass. 

She shakes her head, sighing and looking away, uninterested in his act. "No, you don't," she states simply. "You've ruined everything, Tom. Everything."

He swallows. His Adam's apple is so huge the gesture attracts attention. How many times had she kissed that damned thing, and gone down farther to the hollow of his throat? Who knew there would be a limit to those times? 

"I can fix it," he begs. "I know I can, please, you have to give me a chance."

She lets out a breath that might have been a chuckle if she'd had more energy.

"It's not fixable, Tom."

He flinches, but his eyes are steely blue. "I know I can never make it go away, but we can get through this. We can get better, please."

She shakes her head. "This isn't some new experience for you to embrace and conquer. This isn't a challenge, a bump to be overcome. This is our marriage you've ruined. You're a fucking adulterer, Tom. Nobody uses that word anymore, but it's yours now, Mr. Fifty-Cent-Vocabulary. Adulterer." He flinches again, but can't speak, so she presses, saying it softly, over and over. "Adulterer. Adulterer."

She watches as his jaw tightens. Ah, finally. Here it comes. She almost embraces it, knowing what's going to come out of his mouth next.

"I forget how perfect you are, Miss High and--"

It makes her snap, but instead of laughing, like she really wants to do, she finds herself on her feet. Her hand comes down, and meets right with his nose. She hits him so hard she feels the cartilage bend under her fingers, feels the point of that straight English nose dig into the soft flesh of her palm. 

Tom rocks with the momentum of the slap, and a bright red splurt makes her pull back her hand in shock. Blood pours from his nose, over his cupid's bow and onto his upper and lower lips, making a bright crimson line between them. Instinctively, he parts his lips and the blood flows over his bottom row of teeth. He looks up at her reproachfully, but does not retaliate, or even scold. He simply gets up off the floor and goes into the bathroom.

She stands, fists clenched so hard she's going to cut herself with her own fingernails. Then, with a deep breath, she lets her feet guide her again. She finds herself back in the kitchen, making an ice-pack. She brings it into the bedroom as he emerges from the bathroom, holding a towel to the blood. She extends the ice pack, and even as his hand goes to grab it her fingers go limp before he's got a hold and she lets it drop to the ground.

Again, he gives her a reproachful look as he bends to pick it up. His pale, freckled skin is starting to glow a bright red across his left cheek, a center circle around the left side of his nose where he presses the ice pack. She responds by crossing her arms.

"Do you feel better?" he asks, and his tone is bitter.

"I'm going to take a shower," she states, motioning for him to leave the room. He doesn't, just stands there. Shrugging, she starts to remove her clothes, realizing she didn't even change into pajamas last night but slept in her T-shirt and jeans. Ignoring him, she goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. 

She runs the water so hot it turns the bathroom into a steam room. Then she stands against the tile wall and just lets the water flow.

This is her safe place. Even when she was younger, in her parents' home, she would stand in the shower with her face pressed to the opposite wall and the water at her back. She would close her eyes and this space, the sound of it, the way the water and the tile and everything fit together, it fills her ears with a pleasant white noise and finally her brain starts to clear.

Some years ago, she'd done research on adultery. As a writer, she could do research on anything her heart desired and just shrug it off, saying it was for a book, no matter how bizarre it sounded. Adultery wasn't bizarre, but at the time she'd been a virgin in every sense of the world -- sexual and romantic, to put up the top two. For her to write about something she had no experience with was, in her mind, bizarre. 

The thing that struck her at the time was the shock the discovery would create for the injured party. Dealing with that alone was only the first layer, but a thick and terrible layer. It was never a good idea to make decisions in that first stage. Never make decisions when you are emotionally compromised, this much she knew from life.

So she has to endure this. Unfair as it is, her sanity and future happiness (she scoffs at the thought) depends on it. 

Then comes the wondering. She knew it was there but was pushing it away, not wanting to start playing that game. Yet she couldn't help it. Why had he done it? Was she not enough? Did he not love her enough? Did he love this new person? Had she done something to drive him to it?

No, she tells herself. She can't go with that last thought. Whatever his reasons, it is still Tom who did this, Tom who brought this wedge between them. It was his responsibility to communicate with her and this was the result of his failure, not hers.

Yet she can't bring herself to completely believe that. 

It's a few hours with no hot water left in the tank before she comes out, her skin scrubbed so hard it looks raw. Her face is less swollen, her body is wrapped in a towel, but the numbness is starting to wear off and she realizes that she has to do something, has to figure out some plan of action. Whether Tom likes it or not, or makes his own, she really doesn't care at this point. He can go to bloody hell for all she cares.

Thankfully, he is not in the bedroom when she emerges. She is able to dress in peace. She comes out into the living room to find him sitting in the middle of the couch, slumped, his legs splayed wide in his typical alpha male posture, the ice pack still pressed firmly to his face. She walks over to the overstuffed chair where both of them alternately curl up to read, and perches on the edge, her hands clasping each other as if in prayer.

"Tell me," she says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning -- a few things in this chapter may piss some people off. There are a lot of things about Catholicism that even Catholics don't know or believe but that doesn't change their existence.

2- 

He looks at her from behind the dull blue of the ice pack. He blinks. "Tell you what?"

"Everything. I want to know every detail. Leave out nothing."

He pulls away the ice pack. It has prevented some swelling but his face is bruised, there is going to be a thick heavy streak of black underneath his left eye and there are smudges of blood on his pale cheek. 

"Why?" he asks, sounding thoroughly horrified.

"Because I want to know," she reiterates. 

"But why..." he trails off, looking disgusted. "I mean, what's the point?"

She stares at him, and realizes that the rising sun has started to send golden beams through the window curtains, and they are catching on his hair, getting lighter the more distance he gets from his previous role, getting back to the somewhat blond but always curly mop God gave him. It is unfair that he still gets to be beautiful when he is such a shit.

"I. Want. To. Know." She draws a breath, finds nothing else to say, so starts making it up. "I don't want any more surprises. I don't want any more shocks. You're famous so something like this is going to eventually get out and I will not come asking you every five minutes if this or that is true. I want to hear it all, every gruesome detail, so that I know what is real and what isn't. Right now I'm having a very hard time with that." She looks around the living room, as if their surroundings are proving her point. They aren't but she doesn't care.

Tom hesitates. She can see him tensing, knows him well enough to know when he wants to refuse, when he can't bring himself to go that far. He looks away, down at his hands, back to her, away again, biting his lips, hemming and hawing, but she maintains her stare and stands firm. 

"You sure you want to know?"

She sighs, and for a moment her brain is able to detach itself from the stream of craziness that is her emotions. "It has to be done. I can't promise I won't get upset. I probably will, several times. But quite frankly, you deserve it. You deserve every shred of this, Hiddleston." Even she is mildly taken aback by the cold tone of her voice, but she presses on. "You've already done it, my imagination will make it worse. I can't allow it to make it better. Either you tell me or I find out through the tabloids, and whatever chance we have is going to be obliterated." She cocks her head, her cold tone warming only mildly. "Trust, Tom. That's what this is about."

"But the details, I mean..."

"Do you want to fix this?" she asks bluntly. 

He blinks at her. Confused. "Can I?"

She wants to say no. She doesn't really think he can. But he can show her he wants to try. It will go a long way later. "Do you want to?" she repeats.

When he doesn't reply, she gives up. She stands, crosses back to the bedroom. 

"Yes!" he blurts before she can make it across the carpet. He raises a hand toward her, but still doesn't dare touch her. The icepack, mostly melted, falls on the floor and is ignored. "Yes, Aggie, please. I do. I want to do whatever I have to do to fix this. But can I?"

She looks down at him. He wants hope, she realizes. He is, after all, human, and wants to protect himself. No matter how much he is responsible, he still doesn't want to take the lashing, he can't just belly up to whatever punishment she decides to doll out. It goes against his nature.

She stares, considering. She doesn't want to lie. "I don't know," she says softly. "I really don't. But if you don't tell me...I know the answer is definitely no."

He closes his eyes, lowers his hand which was still outstretched toward her, and then it starts to come out.

It was a girl on the set of the last movie. It started with a flirtation. Tom has always been a horrible flirt, and worse yet, a tease. It was one of the reasons she didn't take him seriously the entire first year of their relationship, keeping him at a distance, waiting for him to drop her, not believing any of his sweet nothings and dismissing any notion of a future with him. 

The girl worked in the wardrobe department. She was responsible for his many costume changes. They talked a lot, as she had to be near him to make sure he didn't do anything to damage the clothes during breaks. He asked her if she took any pleasure in her job. She cheekily replied that it gave her the chance to watch nice bodies like his.

It was off to the races after that.

The culmination had come at the wrap party. Too much alcohol, he says. Bad decisions. They had snuck one or two kisses toward the end of filming, she had copped more than one feel and he had felt her up at one point, but at the party they were making out, and then they were in his hotel.

When Tom stops talking, Agnes presses.

"What was it like?"

He looks horrified. "Why do you want to know that?" Then he gets a good look at her face and his twists in pain.

She realizes that during the telling of his story, her supply of tears has been renewed and her cheeks are wet. She could see it as he told it, not wanting to look directly at him and his nervous gestures, how he fiddled with his neck and scratched the back of his head and twirled his fingers, things she once (and sometimes still does) found endearing and usually sexy. She looked away, but this has made the picture come much clearer. She can see Tom doing everything he says. She can see him slip away from her, one small step at a time. 

"Was it different with her than with me?" Why does she even ask that? She knows it's different. In her research, she had become quite familiar with the reasons why men cheat. One of the most common reasons is the hunger for different experiences and weariness with routine. 

Has their lovemaking become routine? Perhaps after seven years...well, there was the old saying about the "seven year itch." She hates being a statistic. 

"Yes," he says, hesitant. 

She glares at him, suddenly furious. She did warn him she would get upset. "Did she let you come wherever you wanted?"

He squirms. Quite frankly he looks like he wants to vomit. "I..." His eyes shut, the flush so completely over his face it looks like all of his skin everywhere has turned red. "Yes." It is barely a squeak.

It doesn't compute with her. Over the years, she'd be so indulgent with him. She had only one rule -- orgasm only in coitus. That was it. No, lots of people didn't get that, didn't understand it. It wasn't a personal frigidity -- it was a moral choice. It was her commitment to a faith that believed in life. Most of her fellow Catholics didn't even understand that, but she did, utterly. But that didn't mean that they hadn't learned to tease each other, hadn't learned their limits and pushed their endurance to places she had never imagined. That they hadn't at least tried every game in the book once. That she and Tom hadn't done it in every position they could manage, in every goddamn room of the house. And in many that weren't even in the house.

She wants to hurt him again. She wants to get up, walk over to him and beat him down. She would use her fists, but she would much more like a weapon, like a bat. She hates him so much in this moment, despises him for what he's done, not just to her but to himself, that if he were to shrivel up and die in front of her in this very moment, she wouldn't mourn.

He sees it, when he dares to look at her again. He can't bear the look from her, gets up and goes into the kitchen. She lets him go, her blood so high it has frozen her, as if any moment will make her fly apart all at once. 

Her stomach twists and she realizes she has eaten nothing in over twelve hours. The thought of food makes the bile rise in her throat, and she is back in the bedroom again, watching the sun fill the sky at six-thirty in the morning, wishing she could just crawl right back under the covers and sleep forever.

After some dry heaving in the toilet, she lies down on the bed, trying to calm herself. Realizing what she's been ignoring, she reaches for the small wooden box on her beside table, and pulls out the tinkling aquamarine crystal beads. Crossing herself with the silver crucifix, she starts praying a rosary. Normally, she gets through one set of mysteries, but this time she goes through all three, trying desperately to lose herself in the meditation, willing something to suddenly come to her, some answer, some revelation that will make all this make sense and give her a way through it. Right now, she cannot see any path. 

It takes an hour. In that time, her stomach recovers and beings to complain. When she finally finishes the Hail, Holy Queen, she is so hungry it is starting to make her sick. She gets up, putting the delicate beads back in their box, and reluctantly, oh so reluctantly, makes her way to the door. The second she cracks it open, she hears a sizzling sound.

That British bastard is making breakfast.

Not just any breakfast. A full English. The table is even set, as if it were a formal Sunday dinner. How in the world did he think this was a good idea? How did this logically follow from telling your wife about your infidelity? Well, I'm sure you worked up and appetite hearing all that unpleasantness, darling, so here you go. 

But she sits down anyway. He has put out toast and she butters it eagerly. He turns, sees here there, although she is sure he heard her come in and just didn't say anything, either in hopes that he won't scare her off or out of hope that she would say something first. 

This is one of the things with Tom. Nervous energy. Truthfully, she's not that surprised with what he's doing. When Tom gets trapped in a corner, he can't sit still and wait for what happens next. He has to do something. Anything. He has to transfer the energy somewhere, be it in reciting Shakespeare or memorizing poetry or running. Especially in running. She is a bit surprised he didn't go for that route, but she hopes, sincerely hopes, that he didn't go with it because he's afraid if he leaves the house, when he comes back, she won't be there.

Which does cross her mind as a choice.

Tom brings everything over. He gets her plate full of everything -- except beans, she hates beans -- and sets it down in front of her. He gives her a fleeting look that contains more hope than he has any right to, in her opinion, but she dismisses it and tucks in. She consumes everything, suddenly feeling bottomless. Everything has been emptied out of her and she must refill it, even if its with something as temporary as food.

They eat in silence. She shoves mouthful after mouthful down her throat, not looking at anything except what she is eating. She is curious if he is doing the same, as all she sees is his peripheral movements. He drinks his tea -- she rarely drinks any hot beverages, unless she is particularly cold -- and she sips at her juice. When her plate runs out he scoops things onto it without being asked, and she eats them, too, ridiculously hungry. Finally, when everything is gone, she drags her eyes up to his again.

He sits across from her, his long legs crossed off to one side, his arms crossed at the wrist along his raised thigh. Waiting. Expectant. It seems he has decided to let her make all the decisions, to take the lead. This is a complete inversion of their usual relationship. 

She stares back, pretty much at a loss. She already knows she can't follow through with the details of his affair. If what he says is true -- and somehow she doubts it -- they only did it that one time, at the wrap party. 

There is an old saying that comes into her mind. A couple are to put a penny in a jar for every time they have sex during the first year of their marriage. Then, after that year ends, every time they have sex they take a penny out. Supposedly, the jar will never be empty. 

Tom has always been a man of large sexual appetites. When he had finally convinced her that he was serious, a year into their relationship, it had taken her all her willpower to deny him that one thing. Actually, it came down to much more than denying that. He was physical, he wanted to hold her, caress her, but she stubbornly limited him, knowing where it would lead. She knew how weak she was when it came to him -- how else could she have convinced herself to let him in, when she had held off for so long? At a mere thirty-six years, she had just about given up on the whole romantic-love notion. Having never had a relationship, let alone a serious one, she was sure it just wasn't for her. 

Tom had tried to take it well, but she was sure, during that second year, that he was always a heartbeat away from breaking up with her. She was sure he would cheat on her, that he couldn't possibly be willing to wait. But there was nothing to indicate that. Maybe she just didn't know him well enough, she told herself, that he could be very capable of hiding things from her. Still, he returned faithfully after every job, called her regularly when they were separated by distance, visited her when time allowed, and eventually stopped suggesting things to her that he knew she would veto. He seemed to go into waiting mode, and all the while she wanted to find some reason to let him go, to find his flaw, like that in a perfect diamond, hit it hard enough and split it in two. 

When he proposed at the end of that second year, she'd never been more terrified. But he proved himself loyal, and worthy of her trust. She said yes, in spite of her fear -- not immediately, she asked for time to consider, and after a few days in prayer, she agreed to be his wife. 

Now, staring at him, all those old fears from that second year came back. Maybe she never knew him at all. Maybe she had been deluding herself all this time. 

"Can I ask you something?" she hears herself say, setting down her fork with a clink. 

He continues staring at her in a neutral manner, and nods his head.

"That second year. You were in Toronto, filming that del Torro movie, the one I wouldn't watch until after we were married. Were you seeing anyone there?"

"I was seeing you," he replies, as if she should know this.

"And?" she questions, meeting his eyes.

He shakes his head. "Nobody else."

"Even though I was holding out on you--"

"I never saw it that way," he interrupts mildly, gazing down at the teacup he holds in his hand, still perched on his thigh. "You had strong beliefs and weren't going to give in to temptation. I understood that."

"But you couldn't have been happy with it," she points out.

He sighs. She can see the frustration he's fighting to keep from his brow. They have had this particular conversation before, on their first anniversary. She asked him then how he had endured waiting for her, and he assured her he had not slept with anyone else, and that the "enforced celibacy," as he called it, had cleared his head and gave him a sharper perspective than anything else he'd ever done. 

She believed it then. Now she doubts.

"I didn't sleep with anyone else after I met you," he assures her in a steady voice, although it is a bit rickety with all the emotions the two have been experiencing in the last day. "I never have, in all those years, until..."

She supplies when he trails off with a wince. "Until now."

He nods. There is a slump to his normally upright shoulders. He is resigning himself to being beaten over the head with it, and while the thought brings her momentary malicious glee, she knows she can't do that. This is a mortal wound to their relationship. It must be treated as such.

She shifts and leans forward on the table, elbows bent, her face in her hands. She sighs, deep and mournful, and closes her eyes. When they open, she looks everywhere but at him. She doesn't believe what she is about to say, but sure enough the words slide out.

"Did I do something wrong?" 

She looks at him and sees him uncross his legs to lean across the table, denial already forming on his lips. She shakes her head, dropping her hands. 

"No, stop. Just, listen to me. Did I do something wrong? I mean, if you felt the need to look elsewhere...was I not doing my part? Was I pushing you away, not giving you what you wanted? I mean, I know men don't have emotional affairs, not usually, but there are those times and if you really care about this girl then I need to know how I've failed as a wife so---"

"It wasn't emotional," Tom says, cutting her off. "It was a flirtation that went too far."

"But you said you'd kissed her, that you two had groped each other--"

"It was physical, passing stuff, sometimes I wondered if I had just imagined it."

Agnes shook her head. "You didn't, though. It was real. What was it about her that made you want to do that? I mean, you're around beautiful women all the time, you've managed to avoid those temptations."

"I was never tempted," he says. 

"Until now," she repeats from before. "What about now made it different? Tom, I have to know why. I have to know."

He sighs, leans back. His expression goes neutral again. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds lost.

"I really, really don't know."

She clenches her fists, her anger returning. She looks down, her hair blanketing her face so that she can't see him even if she wants to raise her eyes. Then, softly, and with all the heartbreak in her chest, she whispers, "God damn you, Tom."

She gets up and leaves the table.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst. More more more angst.

3-

It's past eight thirty in the morning when she comes out of the bedroom again. She laid down for a bit, exhausted and flustered from their dead-end conversation at breakfast, but now she has somewhere she has to be, and she does still live with the man, and will not be reduced to childish rudeness.

She finds him sitting in the kitchen, the dishes cleared, put away, with his notebook open in front of him, scribbling something. She doesn't care what.

"I'm going to Mass."

He immediately stands, shutting his notebook. "I'm going with you."

She jerks a bit in surprise. Tom has come with her on and off over the years, more for company or affection for her rather than any serious interest in her faith. Tom's relationship with God has always been an ambiguous thing for her. She knows he believes in God, and she knows he finds the deeper aspects of her faith and her own knowledge of theology interesting, but he has never shown any real desire to get involved. For him to want to come now, when he knows his company is the last thing she wants, and his affection for her is completely in doubt, is suspicious. 

"Why?" she asks plainly.

He stops in front of her, at the arch of the kitchen. "You don't want me to go? I thought your heart's desire was for me to convert one day."

She frowns at him. "And now you're interested in doing that? Seems convenient."

"So you're saying I can't go with you?"

She stares at him for a few moments. Damn him, he knows she won't refuse. The depths of her convictions won't allow her to refuse. If he's even remotely interested she is morally bound to encourage it, and her marital crisis is the last time she should be indulging a childish instinct. If anything, people in states of serious crisis often wind up making life altering decisions, and if the Faith is part of that, she can't stand in his way.

"And what are you going to say when people ask what happened to your face?" she tries, one last desperate attempt. It is a bit less swollen but still discolored. It is obvious someone got him hard in the nose.

"I'll say that I got smacked by a door," he replies. "Worked well enough during Coriolanus."

"But, THEN, you actually did get smacked by a door," she points out. She can't help but feel guilty, thinking of women who show up with bruises and give lame excuses like, "I fell." 

"Felt like a door," Tom mumbles, as he brushes past her. "I know I have one clean suit left."

"Hurry up," she grumbles. 

They don't talk. Not during the drive, not outside the church, before or after. There is utter silence between them.

Agnes sits in the pew, watching the slow progression of the Mass. Usually she can let herself go, can put herself into the moment and be a part of it. But now she just wants it to end. 

She feels broken. Not just her marriage, but herself. When the scripture said to leave your gift at the altar and go make amends with your brother, she took that seriously. It wasn't always possible, not with the small things, and usually she did it internally. She knows forgiveness has to work both ways, she knows it is useless to ask for it when she can't give it.

And right now, she can not.

Tom's presence feels like an open wound. Sitting beside her, his long legs spread because the pew was too close for him, following along as best he could, and occasionally looking at her for longer than she was comfortable with, he makes it impossible for her to let go. For her to be there. She can't forgive him -- not at this moment. Worse, she doesn't want to. She wants to get even, she wants him to hurt as she is hurting.

Vengeance is Mine, and all that.

She doesn't even go up for Communion. It was a first, but her conscience won't allow it. The level of hate in her heart is toxic and she has to purge it. That makes her angrier. And it squeezes her heart like a fist. Just a vicious cycle, for the first time she truly wishes she didn't have to be there.

When it is over, and the priest has processed to the back of the church, Agnes gets out of the pew and goes over to the side altar where the statue of Mary stands. She doesn't look to see what Tom is doing, she hopes he's gotten the message that she needs some time alone. She stands in front of the Blessed Virgin for a moment, and then, feeling injured, drags herself over to the opposite altar, where St. Joseph, her husband, stands. 

He would probably understand a bit better, she thinks. After all, he'd nearly divorced Mary when it turned out the girl was pregnant. An angel had had to turn up in a dream and explain things to him. Still, Joseph had not reacted with the odium she was feeling. He was going to do it quietly, because in that age a woman who was unfaithful could be killed on the spot. 

After several minutes of trying to empty herself, she recites a few Our Fathers and then gives up to head to the car. Tom is nowhere to be seen. Thankfully she has a spare set of keys and lets herself into the car. Within a few minutes, Tom arrives, gets into the driver's seat. She lets him drive because she honestly is worried she will drive them both into a tree -- or worse, opposing traffic. 

"I went to talk to Father Greene," Tom says, not looking at her. "I told him we needed to see him."

It doesn't register at first. She blinks rapidly as if clearing her head. "I'm sorry?"

"We need to see him," Tom says, looking at her squarely. "This is a serious matter and we need help."

Her lips start to curl, and words that she doesn't need anything except for her husband to not be a cheating whore dies on her tongue at the sense memory of her knees on that cold marble in front of St. Joseph. The wind leaves her, and all she says is, "Okay."

He seems surprised by her word. "Okay?"

She nods, but doesn't look at him. She continues to keep her eyes from him all the way home, and gives him one word answers at his lame attempts at conversation. When they get home, she bolts from the car and goes directly to their room and shuts the door behind her, feeling suddenly horribly exhausted from being up so early. She strips from her church clothes and into a comfortable pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt, then uncharacteristically decides to take a nap.

She has a very strange dream. It's barely there, but she remembers it when she wakes up. A figure of a woman is laying down bricks. A small brick wall, in a curve, at her feet. The woman kneels, her hands arranging the bricks carefully, and Agnes realizes the woman is making a very small border of the bricks around her feet.

Tom is nudging her awake, very gently, when she opens her eyes a few hours later. She feels fuzzy and her mouth has that awful I-need-to-brush-my-teeth sensation. The image of the woman with the bricks is dismissed as a random dream. 

"Come on, Aggie, you have to get up or you'll never get to bed tonight." His hand is on her shoulder, his thumb rubbing her clavicle gently, and her sleep-buzzed brain forgets how angry she is with him, and she reaches up to cover his hand with her own and give it a squeeze. 

She looks at him, and he is kneeling beside the bed, looking down at her, his eyes close enough for her to see the different colors. "What time is it?" she whispers.

"Nearly one," Tom says, his other hand going into her hair, very gently his fingertips scrape the hair up and away from her ear, as his elbow rests just above her head on the pillow. It's a motion that is familiar and comforting as he combs through her bedhead. She feels soothed, and almost smiles.

But then she remembers. And she wonders if Tom was this sweet and gentle when he fucked on his on-set girlfriend. 

"I made lunch," Tom says, but his voice catches a bit at the look Agnes gives him, as her memory returns. So sad and lost. Like she is looking at him from a great distance and knows she will never reach him. 

Then she rolls over and away, out of his grip.

She lies there for a few moments, until she hears Tom get up and leave the bedroom. Then she pounds her fist into the pillow, hard, and bites back the urge to scream.

Is this how it's going to be, from now on? Will she never look at him again and think of him fucking someone else? If that's the case she needs to pull the cord, put him out of his misery, put her out of it, and just tell him it's over. There isn't any fixing it. 

But she did agree to go see Fr. Greene. When was that? Next Monday, but she'll check with Tom to be sure. 

Feeling even worse than when she went to sleep, Agnes drags herself out of bed, brushes out her hair, and heads into the kitchen, where Tom has made her some bacon sandwiches. The good bacon, the thick kind. 

Agnes stares down at the food for a moment. This isn't going to last forever. Sooner or later, things have to return to normal. Tom is going to go away again in less than a month to another shoot, and when he returns there will be some publicity that will take him away for another few weeks, and this is their normal routine, this is the life she agreed to when she let him put that ring on her. But she trusted him before. Him being away is going to make her imagination, already considerable, go utterly mad. 

"Aren't you hungry?" Tom asks, a chunk already taken from his sandwich. 

She looks up at him. "Why are you doing this?" she asks, her hand sweeping over the sandwiches -- one of her favorite things. And the breakfast this morning. And going to Mass with her. 

"Doing what?" He drinks some juice and swallows, clearing his speech.

"You're trying too hard," she says flatly. 

He shakes his head. "I don't think there is such a thing," he replies. "When you're trying to keep your wife from leaving you."

The words shock her. She covers by folding her arms. "You think I'm ready to leave?"

"I think I know you well enough," he begins, his voice one of forced calm, "to know what's going on in your head."

"Funny. I haven't a thought of what's going on in yours."

"That isn't true," Tom says with a shake of his head. "But it's off point. I know, I've always known, that you took this idea of marriage very seriously."

"I take it as it should be taken," she snaps.

He holds up a hand. "I'm not...I'm not saying that's wrong. I'm not saying it shouldn't. I'm saying that I know what's at stake here. I know what I've done. I don't want to fuck around with it, Aggie. I will do whatever I have to do to fix it." He locks her with his steely gaze. This is the face she sees when she cannot argue with him, when his mind is made up. "Whatever it is, I don't care. You want me to cook you three meals a day for the next month? Done. Wash the dishes, the clothes, the house? Fine. Make the--"

"This isn't a fucking bargaining table!" she roars at him. "It isn't about any of those things! If I cared so much about any of those things I'd hire a fucking maid, we can afford it! I care about the fact that I cannot look at my husband without thinking of him fucking someone else! I cannot do it! The thought of you...it just sickens me." She stands up and throws down her napkin, which she had placed on her lap by habit. "I can't even look at you now. I get sick to my stomach."

Tom has long arms. So when he reaches around the table and catches her wrist and pulls her back, it doesn't so much surprise her as unnerve her, the way he looks at her now.

"I'm not trying to bargain my way back in," he says as she nearly collides with his knees, and he steadies her with his hand on her hip, her wrist still firmly clenched in his grip. "I'm trying to give you something else to think about. I know you can't stand to look at me -- you haven't looked at me once since I told you without looking like you want to vomit -- unless you count ten minutes ago but you were still half asleep, and it didn't take you long to remember. You think I feel any better? You think I can look at myself in a mirror?" He stands up, his hands on her shoulders now, to keep her from storming off -- again. "But I have to. I have to live with what I did. I have to do whatever it takes so that I can."

"Then let me leave," Agnes says, her voice cracking. Until that moment, she hadn't really wanted to. She thought of it, but figured that was just running away, the coward's way out. Marriage was an important thing and she didn't want to be like two-thirds of her generation, throwing hers away when it got bad. But she didn't want Tom licking her boots, either -- she just wanted to be able to love him again without feeling like that same love was stabbing her in the guts with a razor sharp blade.

He shakes his head. "I can't."

"Why not? Your pride? Can't admit you failed?"

He pulls her closer. "Because I love you. And I don't care if you flay me alive every day for the next thirty years, I'll take it. Because it will mean I'm still with you."

"You say that now," she says with a shake of her head. "But it's human nature. Sooner or later your pride won't be able to stand it anymore. You'll get defensive, you'll get angry. And then you'll be happy to run out the door."

"Not even if you punish me forever."

"You're making promises you won't be able to keep."

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her completely into him. She does not embrace him back but it doesn't stop him. Her hands hang limply on her thighs. He leans so close to her face that their noses brush. "Try me."

She ducks her head back, startled by the intimate contact and even more afraid he'll do something stupid, like try to kiss her. But he doesn't let go. If anything he holds tighter. "This isn't going to work. Forcing things won't work," she says, starting to struggle a bit. "Tom, let me go." She turns away, staring down at the table. She cannot bear his face this close, not now.

"Only if you promise you won't leave the room. That you're going to sit down and eat."

She wants to say she isn't hungry, but her stomach won't let her. So she takes another tack. "And fight with you some more? Aren't you tired of it?"

"I said before --"

"You're full of crap and you know it." She sighs, relaxing in his grip, thinking that maybe if she stops resisting she can slip out. But Tom knows her too well and steadfastly keeps her encircled against him.

"Fine," she says. "I will sit and eat. We have to talk about something else, though. Something...neutral. I feel like I'm going in circles, I just need some normalcy."

"That sounds good to me." Slowly he lets go, first one arm and then the other, but his hand stays on her arm, prolonging their physical contact until she is seated and picking up the sandwich. 

After several minutes, Tom finally seems to find a safe topic of conversation. "So are the edits done for the book? I haven't seen you with the proof copy since I came back."

Agnes struggles to remind herself that she wanted a normal, neutral conversation. "Yes," she says, making herself sound natural. "I should be getting a package any day now with the cover sheets. They want me to sign a thousand copies for the website, if people order direct and pay the full price they get an autographed copy."

"A thousand copies? And you have to autograph them all?"

"It's not the first time. Actually, you're in and out so much I don't know if you've ever seen the boxes they send me with the sheets. It's something I do to keep occupied while..." While you're away. Bite it down, Agnes. Keep impartial. "Anyway, they'll probably deliver them Monday."

"A thousand," he shakes his head.

"It will probably be more. Depends on the pre-orders." She shoves the heel of the sandwich into her mouth.

"Want another?" Tom asks, already reaching for the bacon on the towel-lined plate.

She does, actually. She nods, lets him make her another while she gets up and pulls a Coke from the fridge. Her rising from the table earns her a cautious look but Tom doesn't go after her, just continues to assemble her sandwich.

Caffeine is her friend right now. She snaps the can open and pours the rich brown fizzy liquid into a tall glass. The bubbles make her nose tingle and then burn. It's her favorite moment. 

"You don't have to do it all at once, do you?" he asks. "Sign the thousand cover sheets, I mean."

"No," she replies with a shake of her head. "No, I break it down, a hundred here or there. Usually I'm done by a week, they always want it sooner."

"When is the release date?"

"Not until after you've left," she says with a shrug of one shoulder. Tom is about to say something else but she interrupts him. "What about you? What were you planning to do with your time before you have to go back shooting? I assume since we didn't plan a trip you had some sort of project planned."

Tom has finished his meal and sits with his elbows on the table. Upon replaying the question in her head, she hears how utterly ridiculous it was. But still, trying to keep up a temporary facade. "Um, well...you know how I like to hang."

"Not so much since after you turned forty," she teases lightly, but there is no smile on her face. 

"I was going to catch up on a few books. I was hoping I could get an advance copy of your new one so I could read it before I leave."

Agnes bites her tongue, again. It's quite literal, she can feel the marks her teeth leave on that muscle. She has to remind herself that he's not kissing up. Tom has always been a loyal reader, from before they even got together. She remembers how shocked and dismayed he was to learn that even her own parents didn't read her work, not her sister, not her best friend since childhood. She sends them copies but knows they sit, unopened. So it had always been a singular devotion of his to read everything she writes. 

"Give it a few more weeks, I'll see what I can do," she says, finishing her sandwich and wiping her mouth. "Thank you for lunch."

"Wait, I wasn't done answering the question," Tom says as she half-rises out of her seat. Agnes lets herself sink back down, eyebrows raised, expectantly.

"I was going to try and clean out my study," he goes on, sipping his juice again. "Get that stuff cleared out from George. Let Andy move in." He gives her a little, very hesitant, smile.

George was the name of his last character. Andy is the one he is going to be playing next. Agnes reads his scripts, she always does because he always wants her opinion. She does it not just to be a supporting wife, but also because she wonders what the hell it takes to write a script. She can't be so succinct. Script writers have to take out all the nuances, all the motions. The actors get all of that. Sometimes she even helps Tom throw all the things into his well that he chooses, trying to build the character up in his head. This is, somewhat, an invitation. But Agnes realizes something.

"I haven't read the new script," she says.

"You haven't?"

"No, you agreed to this part when you were just starting production on your last film. I never got to see the script." She sips at the Coke, half empty. 

"Do you want to?" he asks, getting up. "I can get it."

Agnes doesn't stop him from rushing from the kitchen to get his script. Andy, if she recalls correctly from what Tom has already told her, during phone conversations from the set of his last movie, the set where he had an affair, even if he only actually slept with the woman once...

No. Stop. Keep it neutral. Andy is a widower. His wife has just been tragically killed in a car accident and he has spent a year grieving over her, but finally decides to move on. He's a bit older than Tom, forty-five, but looks younger, and while he and his wife had no children, he's feeling the sting of his mortality. It's a bitter/sweet sort of comedy, a forty-five year old man trying to date in the modern world, when all he's been with is his high school sweetheart.

Tom is forty-three, and is still in his prime. Ten years ago he had an internet following that made him seem bigger than he was, but he used it to kick and claw and scratch his way into mainstream. Sure, Shakespeare and comic books had given him a marvelous start, but when he played Hank Williams and got nominated for an Oscar (he didn't win) he finally broke into the mainstream. Ten years of riding that train has not made him any less hard-working or persistent, his continuous refrain being that there is only so much time on the clock before he goes from being the romantic lead to the quirky older mentor, and while he still has his youthful, ruddy looks (he could still pass for a man in his thirties, easily) he is not going to waste them.

Tom comes back into the room with the script. It already has his marks and notes in it, and some post-its that dangle from the edges of the pages, pink, yellow and green. (She always used the blue and purple ones, it was a bit of a thing with her.) He lays it down on the table where there were no dishes or food, and then begins to clear the plates.

Agnes picks up the script and begins to read. She sees right away why Tom liked the script, what drew him to it. It's quirky, awkward, and innocent. Andy doesn't have much of a clue, something very different from the suave bastard that Tom can be. Sometimes she marveled that the man ever decided to settle down and marry.

Maybe he shouldn't have. The thought stings and nettles her. It really isn't fair. The old expression about throwing the baby out with the bathwater comes to mind -- she can't dismiss the good times, and there had been many, just because of this crisis. Seven, eight years, admittedly, is not that long, but haven't they been good years for the most part? 

She struggles to remember. And that just pisses her off even more. She realizes she feels like a ship that's lost its mooring line. 

A thought stills her. She doesn't marvel that Tom got married. She marvels that he married her. How many times, at the conception of their relationship, had she tried to abort the process? How many times had she thought it was a mistake, that ultimately their differences, and there were so many, would divide them?

The image of the woman and the bricks floats through her brain. It matters little, at this point, to bewail her choices. She is in this situation now. Now is what must be dealt with.

Agnes gets up with the script. Maybe being out of Tom's proximity will help her concentrate. She has to go back two pages, realizing she read words but didn't comprehend any of them because she was stewing. Admittedly it's barely been twenty-four hours but she's already tired of it. The shock has to wear off soon, and if all that is left is this rage, what's the point of anything?

She settles down into her reading chair in her office, and lets herself get into the script. Tom's little notes about emotions are helpful -- she's a novel writer, she likes having control over everything, but these actors have to fill in the holes the writers have deliberately left. That has to be excruciating for a writer to a certain extent. She knew that the half dozen times her scripts were made into movies, she always felt that the actors were doing it wrong wrong wrong, he wasn't that angry in that scene, she wasn't crying, etc.

The problem with getting into the script, aside from the places where it makes her smile or even giggle, is that she starts to understand. She knew from page three what Tom saw, but now she sees what made it click for him.

Andy has no children. He's forty-five, still young by the standards of men, and he has nothing. Only his wife, who is now dead. They had no children, no matter how much he wanted them, no matter how much she wanted them. 

This, of course, leads her to the same subject.

Tom wanted children. Agnes' point of view was that if she was married, of course she was going to have children, because she didn't contracept, not even Natural Family Planning. Marriage meant leaving every part of yourself open to the person, no barriers, and of course she wanted to have a baby with Tom, as many babies as God saw fit to send them. 

But He hadn't sent any. And God knew that they tried. When nothing happened, they'd both been checked, extensively. There was nothing wrong with either one of them. They did everything to help increase chances of fertility. But for some reason...it just never, ever happened. When she hit forty-three, she realized it wasn't going to happen. She was getting older, the chances were going down. There was a horrible discussion at one point with Tom, they'd said some things to each other -- no, SHE had said something that had wounded him. Something very similar to what she'd said to herself before, about mistakes. It was a low point in their marriage, but they'd weathered it. Somehow.

Agnes was strongly pro-life. The bottom line wasn't so much that life began at conception, even though it was enough -- it was the belief that every life existed because God willed it. And if no life happened, it was because that was God's will, too.

She didn't understand why. They talked about adopting, but somehow that always fell through. Tom was just so busy, his career was so important to him, and before she knew it she was forty-six and who wants a baby at forty-six?

Then, of course, she hated herself for being a cliché. She knew, even now, that they could still attempt to adopt a child. Both she and Tom were stable enough that they would easily qualify. But now there was this, and she refused to get a baby as a band-aid on a wounded relationship.

This inevitably led to her thinking of him being unfaithful to her. And the realization that he might have done it because he was unsatisfied in their marriage. Because of not having any children. If he knocked up some girl, he'd get what he wanted. They'd probably milk him for all he was worth, but knowing Tom, he would bend over backwards to be a good father. It wasn't because he didn't love her, she knew -- or at least she wanted to believe -- that. But she also knew that maybe she hadn't wanted a baby enough, hadn't been open enough to it, hadn't prayed hard enough for it. And she felt guilt.

Agnes puts the script aside. She can't finish it that day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Agnes go to see Fr. Greene. The journey back begins.

4- 

This guilt lapses into depression. 

Over the next week, Tom starts making them both three meals a day, most days. It isn't because he is trying too hard, it is because Agnes doesn't want to eat. She sleeps in late, takes naps, goes to bed early. She lies on various pieces of furniture and watches too much television. Occasionally, she reads -- not so much for her own personal pleasure, but because she is sent books by other authors, and if she wants blurbs on her book from them, she has to give blurbs. So she reads the book and writes up half-hearted blurbs that she doesn't mean. Mostly she sits at her desk and scribbles her name over the cover sheets of the coming novel. 

Tom makes her eat. He fixes things that she will like in order to get her to eat. He makes small talk and she responds, although her heart isn't in it. He has to notice how miserable she is, but he doesn't press. She certainly notices how uncomfortable he is all the time, how jumpy. He jogs longer in the morning, comes back exhausted. Then he reads her book, like he said he would, or works on building his well. At least they aren't fighting. But not talking seems to be worse. There is no ease, no comfort, no joy in their company. Agnes continuously finds herself biting back horrible things to say to him. Swallowing that much vitriol makes her nauseous.

The truly awful part is, it doesn't feel terribly different from their normal routine. Except for their heightened emotional state, everything is pretty much routine. When had things become like that? In the first few years they would spend hours in either his study or her study, talking about his script or her book, giving each other notes, suggesting things to each other. Once they had established that they weren't going to get angry at anything the other said, and the honesty began to flow, it had brought on a closeness unlike anything Agnes had ever felt in her life. And even then, when the other was resistant, because they were both artistic people who could get stuck in their own way of seeing things, and it hurt to have to give up this or that, and they would have little spats, it made it worth it later when they would make up. Which never took more than two or three minutes.

Even father back, when he was courting her, she just loved being around him, soaking in his presence. Listening to music and singing along -- one of three people in her life who wasn't embarrassed to do that with her -- especially in the car, taking trips to this museum or that gallery. It wasn't always easy for him, having to hide his identity, so instead of going out to dinner, they would cook. Agnes loved to experiment and Tom was no stranger to a kitchen, so it became one of their favorite things to do together. Then there were so there were many hours just spent on the couch, talking about so many things. They weren't afraid to argue. They weren't afraid to make their points. That had lasted beyond courtship and into the marriage --

Where had it gone? When had that ease and comfort lapsed into...this? 

By Saturday, Rose goes to confession, unable to face another Sunday without receiving the Host. She rants at the priest, not Fr. Greene, from behind the screen at how she cannot being to think about her sins because she cannot let go of this sin done to her, how she cannot begin to think of forgiving it. She prays for the strength to forgive. The priest doesn't give her a penance but she says three Our Fathers anyway. When she goes to Mass on Sunday she is able to receive Communion and feels a little better. Tom comes with her, and she feels a little better about that, too. 

Monday comes. She feels much calmer about going to see Fr. Greene than she thought she would be. A week ago she would have been a simmering bag of hot coals ready to fly in someone's face, but she feels rather numb. She is still depressed, but her misery has caved in and redirected it at herself, and she feels heavy. 

As they get ready to go, Tom stops at the door and turns to her. The look on his face pushes through the layers of sediment she feels are weighing her down. 

"What is it?" she asks.

"I just realized something," he says, stepping closer to her, and reaching for her hand. She's too emotionally tired to keep it from him. She lets him take it. 

"What?" she asks again.

"I never apologized to you." He seems so stunned by this revelation, blinking at it. She frowns, sure that he had...but no, for the man who apologizes a million times, the simple words "I'm sorry" haven't passed his lips.

She almost snorts. What is the point of those words? They are just words. Two words. Tom knew from early on that those two words did not mean much to her -- truly being sorry was about contrition, not about words. He continued to apologize to everyone else, but when it came to her, he curbed his use of those words. 

"I want to tell you, absolutely and truthfully, that I am sorry," he says, putting her hand in between his. "I know those are just words to you, but I have to say them. I have to make sure you know. If I could take it back, I would...I would do anything to take it back. And not just because you found out, not just because none of this is worth it. I know it was wrong. I knew it was wrong when I was doing it, but that's not...it's not worth this." He gives her hand a tug. "It's not worth hurting you, it's not worth our life together. Those things are so much more important. You are important, the single most important thing in my life. You come above anything and everything. I love you. And I promise you, on pain of my life, that I will never, ever do that or anything like it ever again." His eyes, boring into hers during his entire speech, not looking about nervously but holding her gaze as strong as concrete, are so bright and intense. "Do you believe me?"

Slowly, she closes her fingers around his hand. She nods, unable to speak. She believes him. It doesn't diminish the pain, the fear, the heartbreak, but she does believe him. And it makes her feel just a little bit more confident that they can get through this. That it isn't over.

Tom squeezes her hand between his, and his face starts to lower, but he stops himself. He was going to kiss her hand. But he didn't. He is afraid of her, afraid of smothering her, afraid of her rejecting him. And it touches her.

She swallows. The lump is huge, but she has to push past it. She has to tell him, because it is true. It is very, very true.

"Tom," she says, her voice crackly, "I..." she swallows again, "I love you too."

He looks up at her, and there is such hope in his eyes, such gratitude, that when he twitches toward her, wanting to embrace her, she sighs and says, "Hug me, please." He complies with such vehemence she almost loses her feet. His face is buried in her hair, and she can feel him breathing against her neck. The sensation causes goose bumps, and she unlatches her arms from where they rested low around his waist, uncomfortable with the rush of feeling.

"Come on, we don't want to be late."

=====================

Father Greene is in his early sixties, African-American (a transplant in London) with thinning gray curls. He is heavy set, and his cheeks are covered with dark freckles. There is a gravity in his voice that initially drew Agnes to him, as a counselor. He has a beautiful voice -- whenever he sings during Mass, she doesn't want to, just so she can listen to him. He listens silently, his eyes darting back and forth between the husband and wife who have brought their broken marriage to his office. His hand rests against his mouth, covering most of his expression from them, but Agnes can't help but watch the subtle changes. Observing people and their expressions is one of the things she needs to do in order to write characters well, and she has never grown tired of this exercise. 

Tom's confession -- not a sacramental one, but a statement he makes bluntly and without excuse -- sounds strange to her ears. He doesn't go into gruesome detail -- not like she'd asked him to earlier -- but he does explain how the affair happened in pretty much the same terms he did to her, before. She listens scrupulously, wondering if any new detail will emerge. Wondering of some clue will drop that will tell her why he did it. This is the question gnawing at her, driving her depression.

She doesn't understand why.

She wants to sink into a pit of self-pity and think that she has failed to make him happy, that she is not enough, that she is worthless as a wife, didn't come through as a mother, that she is ugly and fat and he just doesn't love her anymore. But the way he apologized to her before they came here keeps flashing into her mind whenever her thoughts stray too far in that direction and she will not give in to those fears. This is not her fault. Tom made his choices and she is not to blame for them, at all.

When Tom is done, Fr. Greene turns his eyes to Agnes. She looks back, knowing what he is going to ask, and dreading it.

"And how do you feel right now, Agnes?"

She wants to snort and snap, "How do you think I feel?" but she refrains. Tom set this up, and it could not have been easy for him, because this is her religion, her belief system, not his. So she has to take a deep breath, and be honest.

"Right now I'm pretty depressed," she says, softly at first. "I was angry. I get angry now and again, sometimes its worse, sometimes its just a low...simmering." She sighs. "I...I keep wanting to...leave." She feels Tom shift in his seat, feels him look at her but can't bring herself to see the expression on his face. Fr. Greene sees it. "I want to punish him," she admits. "I think leaving would be the best way to do it. I want to get even somehow. I know these are not productive things, but they are how I honestly feel, I can't help it."

At her defensive tone, Fr. Greene gives her a small smile. "It's perfectly acceptable, Agnes. You are entitled to your feelings. It's your choices and actions, however, that you are responsible for. Have you to discussed this part? Have you actually tried to leave?"

"It's come up," Tom says softly, his tone carrying a heavy weight. 

Fr. Greene nods. "And?"

"It's only been a week," Agnes sighs. "I haven't...made any effort to do so."

"All right, that's a start," Fr. Greene leans forward. "First of all, Tom, have you accepted responsibility for the affair? And by that, I don't mean just admitted to it, I mean, accepted the fault. While there may be underlying causes, and we'll get to those, the choice to cheat is a choice and unless you are willing to 'fall on your sword,' so to speak, progress will be difficult."

Agnes can't help herself. She looks at him. So far she has felt that he has taken full responsibility. He has made no excuses for himself, except maybe a few harsh comments in the heat of battle. Tom looks back at her, and she feels just a touch sorry for him. He looks a bit like an abused animal, afraid of the next beating. "He apologized to me, before we came here," she says. This perks him up, just a bit. "So I feel that he has."

"And have you, Tom?" She likes Fr. Greene's directness, but she knows it has to be making Tom squirm. 

"Yes," Tom finally says, and Agnes feels grateful that he doesn't sound defensive for it.

"Now, please don't misunderstand me, I'm not judging," Fr. Greene says, and then gives a light chuckle. "Or I guess I should say condemning. You've come here because there's been a rift and you need help crossing it. A very serious rift, but still, you want to fix it. That's a very important thing to remember. And Tom, you were the one who approached me, so I can say that so far, you seem to be handling this correctly."

Agnes feels herself scowl. There's a correct way to handle this? Like cheating is some kind of accident, like a grease fire or a broken leg. Procedures to be followed in case of emergency. 

"I know I sound like I'm spelling things out," Fr. Greene says upon observing Agnes' countenance. "I just want to be clear, and the two of you will have to learn to do the same, because the first thing that is destroyed in these kinds of situations is communication. Usually it's partly what leads to the matter happening in the first place. But I can tell, mostly from your body language that there is a very high wall between the two of you, and you have to break it down, mostly with words."

Tom and Agnes look at each other. Tom's expression is clearly pained. Agnes feels blank and numb again. She thinks of the dream, the woman with the bricks. She had it again this week. No clearer than the first time.

"Agnes," Fr. Greene addresses her, "it's important that you remember that you are probably going to get angry again. You are going to go through the whole spectrum, denial, bargaining, and even if you think you've hit acceptance the cycle could start up on you again, and you are going to have to be patient, with both yourself and Tom. And I can hear in your head thinking that maybe he doesn't deserve your patience, but this is going to be a test of your ability to be compassionate and forgive. You have to decide, though, if this is worth it. If you want it. Because there will be times when you will have to force yourself to do things you don't want to do, and if you truly do not want to reconcile, you have to admit that to yourself, if not now, then soon. Otherwise you'll just get angrier and more resentful and there will be even more pain than what you're dealing with now."

Both men are looking at her. She doesn't know what to say. She suspects that Tom would love to hear that she wants to say this is worth it, that she wants to save her marriage. And she does. Maybe not for Tom's sake but for hers. She doesn't want to fail.

"I...I do want to," she says. Then, more strongly. "I want to."

Fr. Greene nods, turns to Tom. "I know that you've apologized once, but you will have to do so again. Many times. And you will have to endure the occasional..." he glances at Agnes, "difficulty with your wife. I mean in terms of how you are getting along. Chances are, when she does get angry again, you may have to deal with some cutting remarks. You can't defend yourself when that happens, it will make it worse. Agnes has to let it out, but if she insults you more than once or twice, you will need to, for lack of a better expression, shut her down. And I don't mean being defensive, I mean simply walking away, telling her to stop, ending the encounter."

Tom nods, looking down at his lap, at his hands. Agnes sighs. She feels like she's been given permission, but limited permission. She suddenly feels like she doesn't want to do it, she doesn't want to beat Tom up anymore. Impulsively, she reaches out and takes his hand. The gesture is returned, but Tom's expression is surprised. 

He closes his fingers around hers, and doesn't let go.

"Okay," Fr. Greene mutters, more to himself than to them. "That's the first couple of steps. There are more. I am going to recommend you to a marriage counselor that I trust. I promise she's not some pop psychology wacko." He rummages in his desk for a card, finds it after a moment, and then hands it over. Tom, with the hand that is not attached to her, reaches out his long arm to take it. He glances at it, then offers it to Agnes. She sees the name --- Natalie Summers. At her nod, he tucks it into his breast pocket. 

"The thing to focus on is trust," Fr. Greene continues. "That's the main issue here. It isn't necessarily about love. Men, and I hope you'll excuse me for saying this, Tom," he adds, glancing at him, "are more prone to infidelity than women, although it's not exclusive. But it is rarely about love. Even serial cheaters claim they love their wives." He looks at Agnes. "I think it's pretty clear that Tom loves you, Agnes. Tom, you wouldn't be remiss in saying it more often. Now, this is a question I really don't like asking, but it is necessary. Physical intimacy. Is it often, regular? Lack of a physical relationship is much harder on the man than the woman, and --"

Agnes can't help it. She gives a snort. In the beginning, she and Tom hadn't left each other alone for five minutes. The first time they were ever together, Tom had told her in the afterglow that he wished he had been like her, that he had waited, that she had been his first as well. After that, all bets were off. But then their real lives had taken over and separations had come frequently. Tom often said (more like whined, in Agnes' opinion) that she should come with him more often, since she was far more mobile than he was. This had been attempted multiple times with mixed results. Work sometimes exhausted Tom to the point where she had been little more than a bed warmer, and not even gotten any of the benefits of that position. But the thought of Tom touching her intimately now -- her fingers twitch in his grip, and she has to count to ten to stop herself from yanking her hand back. Tom is grasping it like a lifeline. She can't withdraw it. 

"We're pretty...regular," Tom says. "When we're together, anyway. At least two or three times a week. Sometimes more."

"Yes, well, the marriage counselor can delve more into that," the priest says. "Okay, so communication is next. Do you take time to talk? And I don't mean just mundane conversations like how your day went, I'm talking more intimate conversation. This is somewhat more difficult for men..."

Agnes realizes that if she was feeling better, she would give a little snort and toss a smirk at Tom. Talking has never been difficult for Tom. Ever.

"... but in this situation, you're going to have to take temperature readings of each other. Particular you, Tom, of Agnes. Talking about your emotions might feel repetitive and weary, but for some time, it's going to be necessary. Recovery from something like this takes, on average, two to five years."

Both Tom and Agnes give a little start. Five years? Agnes does the math in her head and she will be fifty-one in five years. She already fights the urge to call herself middle aged, but by then it will be inevitable. She doesn't like to think that she's entering her twilight years with this hanging around her neck, but...

"Don't panic," Fr. Greene's voice cuts through her thoughts. "And don't put yourselves on a time table. I just wanted to give you an idea that this will take time, and if it seems to take a long time, that you don't give up. It all comes down to your will, what you will to happen. If you will to fix this, it will be fixed."

Agnes and Tom look at each other. Tom's eyes are so sad, but she has to stop herself from trying to predict what's in his head. In the long run, she hasn't been married to him even ten years -- their eight anniversary is in three months. And this, while one of her worst fears, wasn't something she could ever have anticipated. If anything, this has proven how well she doesn't know him. 

"We have to get to know each other again," she says softly. 

Tom nods, and Fr. Greene says, "Yes. But it is also important that you keep this very private. Friends, family, they don't need to know anything. I know that seems strange, not telling anyone, but in all seriousness, it will help. People have opinions and as they are not inside the situation, those opinions cannot be allowed to have any influence."

"Nobody?" Agnes says, thinking of her best friend and confidant, Angie. Tom has some close friends too, more than she does. The thought of them knowing makes her uncomfortable but she figured it was inevitable. 

"Particularly because of the celebrity status both of you have," Fr. Greene says. "If you do tell a friend, be sure it is only one, and make sure it's one that will not be tempted to cave to gossip."

Tom looks very pale and his hands start to feel a little clammy against hers. "What if," he says, his voice cracking a bit, "what if the woman...her name is Clare, not that it matters, but what if she talks?"

Agnes feels her stomach drop. In all this time, neither one had even thought about this. Sleeping with a celebrity was worth money. Blackmail, gossip rags, any way the situation panned out it didn't work. 

"Hurm..." Fr. Greene shifts uncomfortably. "That could be a problem, but that isn't a problem you need to worry about. Even if it does come out, you cannot allow anyone to inject themselves into this situation. They have no right to details, and no right to tell either of you what to do. You have to draw an iron curtain, do you understand?"

Both of them nod, but Agnes really wants her hand back. If anything, Tom holds it tighter.

"And if this woman, Clare, does make any contact with you," Fr. Greene says, "you must make Agnes aware of it immediately. You have to be transparent, Tom. Even in the smallest details. It may get tedious but--"

"I don't want to be a babysitter," Agnes interjects. "I don't want to be a watchdog or anything like that."

"It's not that, Agnes. It's about trust," Fr. Greene stresses. "And you need to do it as well. It has to build from both sides. Maybe you don't need to be as minute as Tom, but you have to fight against the instinct to retreat, and the best way to do that is by coming out."

"I understand," Tom says. 

"And if Clare does contact you, if Agnes is in proximity, I suggest you let her hear the conversation. It's highly suggested that the wife witness the end of the affair."

"It was a one time thing," Tom says, but Agnes shakes her head.

"What about what led up to it?" She realizes, in this moment, that that is what hurt the most. The actual sex act could have happened when Tom was drunk and horny and out of control -- not that he's much prone to that kind of behavior now, but as little as five years ago, he could have done it. But this was a conscious effort, a slow burn. "I don't like thinking of it as an affair, either, but it does fit."

"Unfortunately, Agnes is right," Fr. Greene agrees. "Emotional ties are hard to break. When is the last time you saw Clare?"

"At the wrap party, when it happened. About a month ago," Tom admits. "Haven't heard anything since, but I haven't made any effort to contact her."

"Does she know how to reach you?" Agnes asks softly.

"She has my number. We would text each other." Tom's voice is hushed as well. 

"But she hasn't called?" Agnes watches Tom's eyes very carefully. He looks at her, and she can see him putting effort into maintaining a steady gaze. She knows, which she learned from Tom himself, that the more effort a person puts into appearing sincere, the more likely it is that they are lying. "Tom, please."

He sighs. "She called once. I didn't answer, she left a voice mail, I didn't listen, I deleted it."

Agnes sighs. Tom squeezes her fingers. "I didn't talk to her," he stresses.

"Yes, but you should," Fr. Greene says. "You need to make it clear that it is over. And if Agnes can witness that, it will go a long way."

Agnes bites back the thought that sure, Tom could put on a good act for her. But if he changed his mind and called Clare back later, telling her he was just putting on a show for his wife, how would she know? She feels the anger boiling around in her chest again. 

"This is exactly what I mean," Fr. Greene says, seeing Agnes' face. "Communication and trust. Tom, you thought this would be negligible, even hurtful to mention, but you have to do it. You can't keep things like this from her."

"I understand," Tom says, looking into Agnes' eyes. 

"I know that it's going to be difficult, but you need to act normal as much as possible. Don't break your regular routines, and spend more time together. I know this goes against what you're feeling Agnes, but you have to try."

"Tom has to start filming in three weeks, he's going to Los Angeles," Agnes says. "And I have a book tour a week after that, a new book release."

"So how long of a separation will that be?"

"A few months, at least, maybe a few weeks longer," Tom supplies.

Fr. Greene shakes his head. "That might not be so good. It may be too soon for that long of a separation."

"We can't change it," Agnes says, feeling a strange sense of panic. "I mean, Tom has his career, I have commitments--"

"And this. Is. Your. Marriage!" Fr. Greene doesn't shout it but he raps the desk with his knuckles with each word, and his voice is stern. This, Agnes reminds herself, is why she picked him. Few priests these days are willing to take that tone, even when it's absolutely necessary. "Jobs and careers can be put on hold but this is something much higher than that!"

"They won't fire me, Agnes," Tom says. "I can delay starting to film. I will have to tell them because it's of a family emergency or something, but it is possible."

"I'm under contract to promote the book. And they don't like it when you come with me, they're worried about you being a distraction. Half of my readers only starting reading me because I'm your wife."

Tom chuckles. "You know that isn't true. If they have to delay things for two weeks it won't be the end of the world. And I don't have nearly the following I did ten years ago."

"Maybe you should see if you can arrange your schedules to be together," Fr. Greene says. "Tom, even if you can't come to the actual events, at least you'll be in town. And then when the tour ends, how long?"

"A week," Agnes supplies.

"A weeks' separation won't be as much. After that, Agnes, you should try and go with Tom during his filming, if that's possible."

"You'll be in the States for the tour," Tom points out. "Just come and meet me after. Anything else they need you for, you can take short trips."

Agnes looks at Tom. He seems eager for this. Of course, he would love this -- he's always wanted her to travel with him more. He wants her on the red carpet, and over the years she came to learn and understand his need to share that with her, his need to show her to everyone, to let others see how happy they were, let others see her as he saw her. Once he had told her he wanted to be the voice in her head, telling her how beautiful she was. Had that faded, too? Over the years she had been selective, being supportive but knowing it was a job for him, too. When had his voice started to fade from her mind? 

And she still wants to run. She hasn't even let him back into their bed -- Tom has slept the last week on the couch. 

"All right," she agrees.

Fr. Greene nods at them. "All right. Call that counselor, today. Set up an appointment. And if you don't have any plans for today, I suggest you find an activity to do together, something neutral, that you both enjoy. All right?"

Both nod.

"Agnes, do you want to speak alone for a few minutes?"

"You just got done telling me that we can't hide things from each other," Agnes hears herself saying.

"You can always tell Tom later," Fr. Greene says. "There might be a few things easier to hear if Tom is not present. You as well, Tom, if you're willing."

Tom concurs, stands, and kisses Agnes' hand before he lets it go. His stubble scratches her skin and the tingle that passes through her is uncomfortable because it reminds her just that much more of how everything is so wrong, but she doesn't shake it off until he is out of the room.

"Have you made an effort to leave without telling Tom?" Fr. Greene asks her when Tom is outside.

"No," she sighs. "I've mostly been on autopilot."

"All right, well, I know this is going to be difficult to hear, but what I'm about to say is necessary. It is important that, during this time, you be brutally honest with yourself. You have to evaluate your own behavior. I'm not saying at all that any of this is your fault, but if you want to keep him, you have to find out and act upon the discrepancies in your relationship. Tom is an actor, and suffice it to say, those who go into that profession are in more need of attention than your average person. Giving him attention will be important." At her scowl, he held up his hand. "I know it feels like rewarding his behavior, but it could be lack of attention that contributed to this. He's getting older, he could be insecure. Men are notoriously insecure and never like to show it. Our egos are fragile, and Tom's could be more so, if a man has to perform and receive validation from others in order to make a living. I'm not a psychiatrist but it is something I've noticed over the years."

"Counseled many actors, have you?"

"One or two. Being Catholic and being an actor generally don't go well together. Look at Mel Gibson." Both of them chuckle lightly. "But seriously, you have to give yourself time to process. Depression and anger are only part of it. Shame may come as well, it will definitely come if this gets out. And whatever you do, you have to fight the urge to run."

She gives him a weak smile, says she will, and seeing as that is the end of Fr. Greene's advice, she gets up to leave. When she goes out into the lobby, Tom is pacing lightly, and he goes in after giving her a peck on the cheek. He is getting more physical with her now, obviously the apology and holding his hand for so long has given him permission. She realizes she has to bite back the urge to resist him. Giving Tom attention, feeding his ego...even under normal circumstances she would have balked a bit at this.

And there it is. Another thing that has changed. She always fought to keep from fawning over Tom, most especially in the beginning. But she did have her moments of doting. When was the last time she'd done that? She can't remember.

That woman gave him attention she didn't. In spite of a healthy sex life, in spite of letting him lead and call the shots, she had given him something Agnes did not. Attention.

And attention is really the last thing she wants to give him right now.

Ten minutes later, Tom comes out. He is a bit flushed, but he smiles at her before he gestures for them to leave. In the car they talk.

"He told me that..." she starts, and then stops, wondering if she should tell him. "That I have to evaluate myself too. I have to find any way that I haven't...fulfilled your needs."

Tom gives her an incredulous look. "He said that?"

"Well, he said you're an actor, you have a big ego, and need a lot of attention, too." She deadpans it, but there is amusement in her eyes. 

"And what...you have to stroke my ego? Pay more attention to me?"

"Well, obviously that's what Clare did," she points out. She peers up at him. "Admit it. The thought of me doing any of those things makes you want to burst out into a Loki-grin."

"A bit," he admits, blushing. "But I don't deserve it."

"I don't think we can look at it that way. It's not about what anybody deserves."

"It's about what you deserve," Tom says, eyes flashing a bit. "He told me that...I need to pay more attention to you, too. Be more affectionate, but not to press you for anything. Let you call the shots for a while."

"Press me for anything," she murmurs. "Like sex?"

He shrugs. It's a yes, but he can't admit it. She almost laughs. 

"That seems kind of counterproductive, doesn't it? I mean, you went somewhere else for sex, depriving you of it isn't going to make you not want to cheat."

"That..." His voice starts sharp, but he trails off, looking away from her, gripping the wheel. They haven't even left the parking lot. The car isn't even started. He lets out a slow breath, and she feels momentarily startled upon realizing he's struggling with his temper. "Okay, I can see why you think that. But that isn't it. Our sex life was never a problem. Is not a problem." He turns his eyes back to her again. "I...I don't know how to explain it."

She leans her head back against the seat. She feels drained, utterly drained. "Look," she says, "I think we've been talking about it too much. We should...change the subject. Go do something together. Have a late lunch, early dinner. Mi Piace?" A favorite restaurant of theirs. "Maybe a walk through the park after."

He finally starts the car. Before he reaches for the gear shift, he reaches over and grasps her hand. "I'd like that."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom deals with the Clare situation directly. And it hits the fan. Hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I need to hear from my peeps! Because I am still in flux about will they/won't they? As they progress, what do you think? Are they doomed or can they fix it?

5-

Neither one is actually hungry, so Agnes and Tom take the walk through the park before their late lunch. They don't talk much. Agnes' head is filled with things she would rather not think about but Tom also seems distracted and she can't quite figure out a subject that would interest them both.

"There should be promo copies of my new book delivered to the house sometime this week," Agnes finally says. "You can read one of them, if you like."

"I feel bad that I haven't read it already," he says.

"You were filming," she shrugs. Usually he got a hold of one of the proofs and read that, if he didn't sneak onto her computer to see it. But the heavy reading on the monitor would hurt his eyes, so he didn't do that often; he waited for a hard copy. And her thoughts do not go to what else he was doing, although they want to.

Finally they sit on a bench in the late afternoon sun. She desperately wants a soda -- she knows its liquid candy and she shouldn't have it but she wants one. She's craving sugar and she knows it's because of her exhaustion. Maybe she'll have one at lunch. 

"Tom," she says, knowing it has to come up eventually, "why didn't you tell me that Clare had called? Was it before you confessed to me, or after?"

"It was before," he said. "A few days before. You can check my phone if you want," he says, reaching into his pocket.

She shakes her head. He is assuming she won't believe him. She considers that she has to start trusting him again, no matter how hard it is. Trusting him with something small would be a good start. 

This also explains why he didn't tell her. But the fact that he didn't listen to the message or take Clare's call shows that he was already feeling guilty. 

"Do you think she'll call again?" Agnes asks.

"If she does," Tom says, meeting her eyes, "I will tell her it's over and not to bother me again. And if you want to hear it, I will do it in front of you. I'll put her on speaker phone."

Agnes' stomach twists at this thought. But Fr. Greene had said this would be a good thing. "Maybe you should call her," she suggests. And then, her brain takes an unexpected track. After all, no need to be mean to the poor, husband-stealing slut. 

Tom suddenly has her hand in his. He is staring at her face with clear anxiety. Apparently her last thought has left a dark cloud on her expression. "It is over, I promise," he says. "And we can call her today if you want. I think I can find her number. I'll just call back from the message she left a few weeks ago."

It is silly, Agnes realizes, to focus her rage on the other woman. The other woman is really not the problem. Tom is the problem. Tom is the one who had a commitment and Tom is the one who broke it. The other woman just took advantage of what was offered for her.

Having reading a large amount of fiction, Agnes has read the story from the other woman's point of view many times. How sad it is, to fall in love with a married man, a man who is already taken and yet makes himself available. He plays both sides, hurting everyone. Then when he gets what he wants, he goes back to the wife, and the poor "other woman" is left in the dust. But it is hard to feel sorry for this Clare right now. She doesn't know if Clare is in love with her husband -- although that would hardly surprise her, half the internet was in love with him once upon a time -- or if she was just a predator putting a notch on her belt. She doesn't know anything, and quite frankly she doesn't want to know. It isn't about Clare, it's about her and Tom.

"Are you hungry?" Tom asks, having watched the play of emotion dance across her face. In reality, in spite of the help of the talk with Fr. Greene, she suddenly feels so miserable she just wants to go home. But no, she'll go eat. She has to try. Fake it till you make it, and all that.

"Yeah, sure. Let's go."

\--------------

As soon as they walk through their door at home, Tom sits down on the couch and pulls out his phone. He scans through the old calls, seeing if he can find Clare. Agnes watches him, surprised that he's doing this so quickly. He seems very determined about this whole thing -- and it is another point in his favor.

"Here, I think this is her," Tom says, briefly biting on his index finger. He looks up at Agnes. "Do you want to do this now?"

Agnes sits down on the couch, not tucked away in the opposite corner but not too close to Tom, either. She wonders if she shouldn't have taken one of the easy chairs. "It's on you," she says. "You're the one who the hardship is on."

"I want to do it now," Tom says restlessly, his fingers rubbing and pinching at the skin of his collar and neck under his shirt, like they always do when he feels self conscious. This nervous habit drove women insane back in the day, and to a certain extent, still does. 

"Only if you're ready," Agnes says. She's only three years older but occasionally Tom makes her feel it. "I don't want you to go into this thing unprepared."

Tom shakes his head. "I can do this. I want to do this, very much."

"Well, don't ambush the poor girl," Agnes hears herself saying. Tom gives her a slight scowl, and then presses "dial." The call rings twice before it is promptly snatched up.

"Tom?"

Maybe it was Agnes who wasn't prepared for this, she thinks as her stomach shrivels upon hearing that hopeful voice. 

"Yes, Clare, it's me." Tom has it on speaker so Agnes can hear everything.

"I haven't heard from you in a while, I was thinking...all kinds of things, actually." The woman gives a nervous chuckle. She sounds rather innocent. Agnes narrows her eyes at Tom, who starts to go on quickly.

"Yes, I am sorry about that, but the truth is, I called you for a very specific reason."

"You want to meet up again?" Clare asks hopefully.

Agnes sucks in a breath and winces. Tom grabs her hand but she has to bite back the urge to yank it away.

"No, Clare, I don't. In fact, I wanted to...I wanted to let you know that I won't ever be able to see you again. I'm...I'm sorry if this hurts you, but you knew I was married, and I've realized that what happened between us was wrong."

A long pause.

"Clare? Are you still there?"

"She's listening, isn't she?" Suddenly the innocent tone is gone. "I know I'm on speaker phone, I can hear it. You've got her listening. You made a big, heartfelt confession and now to get back in her good graces, you have to blow me off so she can see."

Tom scowls. "It's the right thing to do. What I did was wrong and I just wanted to be clear."

"Bullshit." Now the woman is scoffing. "You actors are all the same. Your wounded egos need stroking and it's all fine and good to get some tits and ass to do it for you, but the second there's trouble at home you tuck your tail between your legs."

Agnes feels something strange. As much as she hates this voice, this snide, angry voice, she can't help but agree with it. Tom is putting on a show, for her. And everything Clare is saying is true.

"You're angry, you have a right to be." Tom looks at Agnes, and the guilt is practically overwhelming his features. "I did take advantage of you--"

"Damn skippy you did," Clare barks. "I'm sorry, but you're not getting off this easy. You did the damage, you're going to have to pay for it."

Agnes stands up, unable to hear any more. Tom, who had lost his grip on her wrist, seizes her again, fiercely, to keep her from walking away. With his long arms it's easy. 

"Don't be ridiculous, Clare," Tom says. "I'm going to hang up. Don't call me again."

"One hundred thousand dollars," Clare says over him. "Or I go to the tabloids. I tell them I'm pregnant with your love child."

Tom goes white. "Are you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? Fuck you, Tom. You get that money order together within the next two weeks, or you can look at yourself on the scandal rags for the next month. Fuck you," she says again, for good measure, and hangs up the phone.

Tom stares at it, the phone in one hand and Agnes struggling in the other. Then he drops the phone and pulls Agnes onto his lap, imprisoning her there.

"She's not," he says to her. "I wore a condom. I saw her birth control pills. She's not pregnant."

A condom? He wore a fucking condom? Tom never wore a condom with Agnes, so clearly he had to have gone out and bought one. "Where did you get a fucking condom, Tom?" she roars. "Were you planning to fuck her? You made it sound before like an impulse thing!"

"She had one!" Tom cries. 

"Yeah, like that makes it really fucking reliable! Some whore with a condom -- God knows how old it was! What if she is pregnant?" Agnes says, squirming against him. Tom latches down, unwilling to give her an inch. "You going to pay for her to abort it? Let's add murder to adultery, two commandments for the price of one!"

Tom shakes his head. His voice rises in pitch, desperation kicking in. "She's not pregnant! I'll make her prove it!"

"Yes, that'll be lovely!" Agnes shouts, no matter that he's a few inches from her mouth. He winces -- Agnes is abrasively loud when she's this mad. "And in the meanwhile I get to be the good wife! The one who stands beside you at your press conference with your hat in your hand, telling your confession to the world! With everyone looking down their noses at me -- 'poor little thing, obviously couldn't keep her sexy husband interested so he went sniffing somewhere else!'"

"You knew this could happen!" Tom pleads with her, grabbing at her hands, which are flush against his chest and shoulder, pushing. "Agnes, I'm sorry! I'll pay her the money, I'll do whatever you want me to do. Just...don't push me away again! We were just starting to..."

She sees the anguish on his face, and suddenly all the fight goes out of her. Tom's eyes are so wide, and growing red from unshed tears. He's grasping her so hard, it's frantic. He can't meet her gaze for long, his head drops, his shoulder slump. He looses his grip on her, but she can't pull away. She instinctively goes to hold him, wrapping her arms around his neck and cradling him, even though she's on his lap. 

"I'm sorry," he sobs against her, his tears falling on her neck and soaking her shirt. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry..."

He's her husband. And he's right. They were just starting to inch forward into that reconciliation that feels so out of reach. It isn't about what Tom deserves -- because quite frankly he deserves to be this miserable. It's about mercy, and compassion. He is her husband and she loves him, and while she is not, for one second, going to let this go, she also isn't going to deprive him of the one thing he needs.

Her.

She closes her eyes, the soft brush of his hair rubbing against her cheek, her nose. She thinks, in that moment, of how much she wishes that Tom were Catholic. Not just for the sake of his own soul, but so that she could explain it to him -- that horrible feeling of guilt, guilt she's known for much lesser things, but worse for her because she knows better, that feeling that you can't be forgiven, it's too much to ask. But there is a way out. There is a way back. But he doesn't understand those things like she does. She would want to tell him, as much for herself, because she needs to remember it too, now, more than ever. But he wouldn't get it. And she feels something inside her stiffen.

That night, she lets Tom back into their bed. She has to do it sometime, she can't keep him out forever. When she tells him, he seems hesitant, and for a moment she wants to snap at him, "Fine, sleep on the couch forever." But instead he says, "I want to be sure it's what you want."

"Tom, it's sleeping. Nothing else. Surely we can manage that."

But during the night, Tom's long limbs and restless tossing and turning push him over toward her side of the bed. Usually this doesn't bother her, waking up with him rolled onto her, but when she finds his hand curling up and his fingers over her breast she has to count down from twenty to keep from shoving him violently away. She disentangles herself from him with more grace than she thought she could muster and goes to sleep on the couch. 

Tom is upset in the morning. "If you weren't ready, why did you let me back in the bed?"

She sits up on the couch, bleary-eyed, as it is too early for her, but perfect for Tom to leave for his morning run. 

"It wasn't that...it was fine until you..." She motions toward her breast. It's the best she can manage.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, zipping up his hoodie. He flips the hood up, shielding his face. Of course his midnight groping was never a problem...before. 

Tom had called the therapist himself the previous afternoon. Only two and a half weeks to go before Tom leaves for filming, so the therapist squeezes them in on Thursday morning. Tom sleeps on the couch for the next two nights, and things get more awkward until they are on the therapist's couch.

The therapist is smart. She lets the couple do all the talking for the first part of the session. Let's them give her all the information she needs. It hurts, having to hear Tom re-tell the story. Including the part about calling Clare. Just another explosion in their face. 

Agnes feels the urge to run kick in again. Leave Tom, let him get on with his life. Obviously this marriage is a millstone around his neck. She is a burden. She'll be fine, she can survive on her own.

"Agnes?"

She blinks. Her face, she can feel it, has gone long, and numb. Tom is looking at her with that hesitancy again, that fear. It makes her feel worse. She reaches up and realizes that tears have started to drip out of her eyes again. 

"I'm sorry?" Agnes says. She is sure that she was asked something.

"I guess it would be silly to ask how you feel." The therapist, Dr. Natalie Summers, reminds Agnes of a Hollywood actress herself. She has long dark hair and perfectly symmetrical features. Her lips seem to pull in a natural pout. But she wears clothes that cover whatever other features might attract the eye of a man -- her blouse is buttoned, she is wearing a long skirt and there are ankle boots peeking out underneath the hem. "But I do want you to express your side of the story. How did you find out about Tom's infidelity?"

"I figured it out," Agnes says. "I mean, Tom was shooting, he'd tell me where he was but there would be pictures of him in the tabloids or a friend would tell me he'd seen him somewhere else. His absences were...irregular. And finally I confronted him and he told me the truth."

"So you didn't initiate this," Dr. Summers says, turning her gaze back to Tom. "You didn't come to Agnes and tell her what you'd done. Was there a reason why?"

Tom shifts. Even Agnes feels slightly like Dr. Summers is accusing him, but she lacks the desire to defend Tom at the moment. 

"Well," he said, "I guess I thought what she didn't know wouldn't...hurt her," he admits with a defeated tone. He's not proud of himself, Agnes can hear it. The feeling of compassion she feels for him is a stab. She tries to remember the feeling of two days ago, when she held him while on his lap.

On the couch that night, she had the dream about the woman and the bricks again. But this time Agnes could see her own hands laying the bricks down. And each time there seems to be more of them. Sometimes she is laying the bricks down herself, and sometimes she is watching the figure do it. 

"Were you intending on continuing the affair?" Dr. Summer's voice interrupts her rambling thoughts. It was very plainly spoken. No inflection, but with a surgeon's precision she cut deep. 

"No!" Tom says quickly. He scowls, and then looks down at his hands. "I hadn't...I hadn't thought about it. I felt guilty enough knowing what I'd done, I was going to handle it myself, make it go away."

"And what were -- are -- your feelings for Clare? Putting aside the outburst, before Agnes confronted you. Did you have emotional feelings for her, or was it just sexual?"

"It was...mostly sexual."

"Mostly," Agnes echoes, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I told you about the flirting," Tom says. "I mean, we had become friends, I liked her."

"What did you like about her?" Dr. Summers asks.

Tom struggled. "I don't know, she was..." He seemed unable to look at Agnes. "Young, cute. She was interested in me. She was rather...uninhibited."

Agnes blinks slowly. Uninhibited. 

"The reason I'm asking these things," Dr. Summers says, "is to try and determine the underlying reasons for the infidelity. By dealing with whatever issues caused it, we work on strengthening the marriage and preventing it from ever being attacked again. Now, Agnes," the woman goes on, "this is not implying in any way that you are responsible for the infidelity itself. However, as an equal partner in the marriage you are as responsible for its maintenance as much as Tom. Regardless of your emotions, you have to commit to participating in the reconciliation. Are you willing to do that?"

"Yes," Agnes says, although it's small, weak. 

"It's going to be harder on you than on Tom. I know that's unfair, but there are specific reasons. You are probably now in a state where all you want to do is run and avoid. You most likely want as little to do with Tom as possible. You have probably considered seriously leaving him. These feelings are not going to go away quickly. They may even be exacerbated by having to help Tom. Resentment is a very high possibility. But you must be sure that this is what you want. It will not be just a cut and dry decision, you will have to make it over and over again. And if at any point you realize you have decided that you cannot any longer, it is important to express that desire as soon as possible. I'm not talking about going back and forth. I'm talking about feeling as sure about it as you feel sure about working to fixing your marriage right now."

"I thought," Tom says, something underlying his voice that is borderline nasty, "that because you were recommended by a Catholic priest, your goal would be to keep us from divorcing."

"Even Christ said infidelity was the one reason for divorce. But divorce doesn't mean remarriage. And from what I understand, Tom, you aren't the practicing Catholic, it's your wife. Which also puts us on some difficult ground. Your perspectives on this are different."

"Tom's always been supportive of me practicing my religion," Agnes points out. 

"Good!" Dr. Summers smiles at them. "So how are you feeling right now, Agnes?"

Agnes can only nod. 

"Tom?"

"A little bit angry, I guess. I know I'm the bad guy here, though..."

"No," Dr. Summers says, firmly. "I'm sorry if I came across that way, but facts are facts. We cannot look at this situation as good or bad, villains or heroes. The two of you have to be a team and support each other. But the first couple of sessions are going to be focusing on helping Agnes deal with the initial reactions that always come when a partner discovers the other is unfaithful. How they find out is a major factor in their emotional state. If you had come to her, Tom, and told her what you'd done, as difficult as that may have been, it would have done a lot to fix the broken trust we are now dealing with. The onus is going to be on you to repair that trust. Because she had to discover it herself and then confront you, Agnes is dealing with wondering what else there is that you may not have told her. So please, if there is anything else, now is the time."

Tom looks to her. "I've told you everything, Aggie," he says. 

"You told me about the phone call in Fr. Greene's office," Agnes points out. "Have you talked to Clare at all since we talked to her? About the money, anything?"

"I talked to Luke. He's the only one I've told about this." Even after all these years, Luke   
still handled Tom personally. He didn't walk the red carpets with him anymore or guide him through crowds -- there were lower-end flunkies for that, and the crowds didn't press like they once did -- but he still kept Tom's rep as clean as he could. "He said I shouldn't have any contact with Clare at all. He has one of his people on it."

"Are you going to pay her?" Dr. Summers asks softly.

"I don't want to but I can't stand the embarrassment," Agnes says quietly. "And Tom already wanted to do it. If she turns out to actually be pregnant we'll request a paternity test. We haven't discussed it beyond that."

Natalie nods. "I suggest you do that sometime soon. Be prepared. Celebrity always adds three more layers of complexity to situations like this. But going back to the matter at hand, repairing trust is our first priority."

"I don't want to be a watchdog," Agnes says. She has lost count how many times she has said that.

"Once again, Tom, the responsibility for that is yours. Don't make Agnes feel like she has to check on you. Phone calls and schedules should be initiated by you. If you want her trust, you have to make the effort. Now, I have been laboring under an assumption, I've realized, and I have to ask you a question."

"What assumption?" Tom asks.

"Do you want to save your marriage, Tom?"

Agnes feels that has already heard this, but as she searches her memory, all she can recall is Tom saying he's sorry. The fact that he went to Fr. Greene says a lot that he wants to fix this, but the actual words, have they come from his mouth? "I love Agnes," Tom says, an edge in his voice. "If she leaves me, I'll still love her. But I won't leave her."

"Why not?"

Tom seems a bit flabbergasted by the question. "Why--"

"It is a reasonable question," Dr. Summers says. "You are the one who initiated the break. So it stands to reason that perhaps the marriage is not working for you. If you do not wish to continue this relationship, regardless of wanting to help Agnes, to make her feel better, to be forgiven for what you've done, you have to say so, just as she does."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Tom barks. "I've admitted to what I've done! I broke it off with Clare in front of Agnes to show her it was over and that I was committed to just her, just like I was told I had to do...of course I want to fix this, Aggie, you know that!"

"I know, Tom," Agnes says. "We had this conversation already, Dr. Summers."

"I'm sure, but repeating yourself is going to be a part of this process. I ask because sometimes the unfaithful spouse confuses the guilt of hurting the partner and thinks the only way to fix the situation is to stay, when ultimately the infidelity is a sign that they wish to leave. If you do leave, Tom, it does not mean that Agnes can never forgive you, that she will fall apart and die, as some husbands sometimes think. And Agnes, you need to hear that, too. Your self-worth does not depend on Tom's love, as his doesn't depend on yours."

Neither spouse has anything to say to that.

"There is something I seriously want to explore," Dr. Summers says, tapping the end of her pen against her chin. "You two are quite different. I'm not talking about personalities, but Agnes, being as devout of a Catholic as you appear to be, it is unusual for someone of that level to commit to a relationship with someone who doesn't share your faith values. I'm not saying that makes you a lesser person, Tom," she adds hastily, looking at him and then going back to Agnes, "but it does create quite a hurdle to overcome. So I would like to know how you came to the decision to marry Tom."

Agnes hasn't thought about this in quite some time. In the beginning, she thought about it constantly. She had always known the song was true -- love was not enough. Even if the Beatles said otherwise. 

"She rejected me when I first declared myself to her," Tom says, when Agnes doesn't speak for several seconds. "She told me no because of that. She said we just didn't make sense. She said we wouldn't work."

"And how did you respond to that?"

"At first I accepted it," Tom said. "I mean, I wasn't going to push myself on someone... I respected her integrity. It was one of the things that drew me to her. Her confidence in what was right and wrong. Her intelligence in being able to explain it. Her passion for it." He stares at Agnes while he talks, but his eyes are unfocused. "I didn't agree with her but I saw the kind of person it made her. But I couldn't just walk away from her. I wanted to still be friends, but I couldn't seem to make myself stop holding out hope that maybe she would change her mind."

"Did you ask again?"

"If you call drunken kissing in a hallway asking again," Agnes sighs. 

Tom smiles. "The Christmas party."

"He was wobbly. I was living with a friend, another actress who was working with Tom at the time, my best friend Angela, and she had this Christmas party and I went upstairs to go to bed. Tom followed me. He sort of...shoved me against the wall and started kissing me."

Dr. Summers' eyebrow arches.

"She didn't stop me for a good minute," Tom says, a grin slowly twitching the corner of his mouth. His eyes haven't left Agnes nearly the whole story. "When she did she sort of cussed me out. Told me I was drunk, go sleep it off, and locked her door. Like she was afraid I was going to attack her."

"I thought," Agnes continues, cutting Tom off, "that he was just drunk, and the next morning I was sure he would be gone before I got up, but he stayed around. He asked if he could go to Church with me -- it was a Sunday. I couldn't say no. And he went to lunch with us after, my friends and I, and was generally as charming a bastard as he always was." She sighs, her tone affectionate. Her throat tightens a bit at the next part. "He asked me to reconsider going out with him at the end of the day. He said he knew we were different but he wanted to try. He said he couldn't..." she can't continue.

"I couldn't stop thinking about her. I wanted to be around her all the time. I thought if it was just an infatuation or a crush it would fade, but the more I was with her, the more I wanted to be with her."

"And you gave in, Agnes?" Dr. Summers says.

"I did," she sighs. "I figured it couldn't hurt. I figured it would only be temporary. He would finish filming and he would leave and it would be over. I even had a big speech I gave him the night after filming wrapped, saying it was fun but there was never a future. I know people are so casual about dating, my friends have always said a date is not a marriage proposal, but I don't see the point in dating someone if you're not looking at them as a potential marriage partner. It doesn't make sense to me."

A memory flashes in Agnes' mind. That afternoon she'd tried to break it off with him, he had known it was coming. He was playing Nat King Cole's "Answer Me, My Love," in almost a serenade from the living room, directly below her bedroom at Angie's house. She hadn't made it all the way down the stairs when she crumbled into tears and babbled out the break up speech. She would not forget his face as she came out of the room, nor how his expression deepened when she managed to get her message across.

"How did you take it, Tom?"

"I was devastated," he admitted. "I begged her to change her mind. But I was leaving and it wasn't like there was a lot I could do. So it was a few months of long distance phone calls before I convinced her to give us another chance. There was always some reason for me to be in L.A. Every time I was there I made sure we spent time together."

"What finally convinced you, Agnes?"

Agnes considers her answer carefully. "He...wanted to make me happy. He didn't judge me as a prude, or put any conditions on me. He accepted me exactly as I was. Nobody had ever done that before. And I...I mean, I couldn't resist him..." She can't look at him as she's talking, remembering those first feelings. She presses a hand to the side of her face, covering one eye and a cheek. She can feel him staring at her, feel the flush riding up her neck. "He wore me down. And I put so many conditions on him. I wasn't going to sleep with him, ever. I thought for sure he would break it off once that got through to him."

"Why didn't you, Tom?" Dr. Summers asks him. "I'm trying to understand what drives a man who is used to being sexually active into celibacy. Did you think if you waited long enough she'd change her mind?"

Tom pulls his eyes away from her. Now it is his turn to turn bright red. "I started to see her as something precious, something to protect," he says. "We almost broke up over it, when she realized she was losing her resolve. She told me that she would rather end it before she ended up doing something she regretted. Her faith meant more to her than I did. I can't say I was happy about it. We almost did break up, but...I just couldn't. I couldn't let it end because of that. I promised her I would keep her from doing anything she would regret."

Dr. Summers scribbles something down. "You think Agnes' faith means more to her than you do?" she asks.

"It's always been her first priority," Tom says. "But it's what makes her who she is."

"And are you jealous of that?" Dr. Summers asks.

Both of them stare at her. Something in the back of Agnes' neck starts to prickle. She can feel it, like little sparks going off. 

"Tom," Agnes says softly, "you know that isn't true, don't you?"

He blinks at her. "I do?"

She shakes her head. "You...my faith is the reason for everything," she tries to explain. "I don't put it above you -- I put it in you, Tom. The things that allow me to be who I am, that's shaped me, that's made me the woman you love. I don't hold it up, I live it, and I try to give it." //To you, but you don't want it,// she thinks. And that hurts even more.

"We're almost at the end of our time," Dr. Summers says. "You both need to take some serious time for reflection. If we can realize what it is that made you decide to join your lives together, in spite of fundamental differences, maybe we can get you back there, and overcome what's pulling you apart. I think I can squeeze you in again in three days. I'll have my assistant call."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, two steps back.

6.

Agnes is quiet on the return home. The thought of Tom wanting to stay with her purely out of guilt makes her stomach churn. Tom is the kind of man who would convince himself he was doing the valiant thing by staying with her, when in reality he wanted to leave. He would stick with a commitment regardless of the personal damage it did him. 

But he'd also cheated. A contradiction in terms. 

The thought of Tom being jealous of her devotion makes her feel tense and nervous -- like she is again going to be forced to choose. Usually she finds his jealousy flattering, on the rare times it occurs, as she's used to being the insecure one, and it's nice to be reminded that he gets insecure, too. But this is different. She doesn't know what she would do at this point. She knows she can't go back on her beliefs, but she also knows that the thought of her marriage ending destroys her.

Tom has spent considerable time trying to delay when he begins filming. He tells his agent that it's a personal crisis, but there are still dozens of phone calls that come in, and she has to listen to him repeat his story again and again. 

So she goes to work. She holes herself up in her office and sorts through fan mail, updates the web page, goes over the tour dates. After a few hours, Tom knocks on her door.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. "I was thinking about dinner." He comes in and sits down at the one chair in front of her desk, which is only there for her editor when she comes to visit and argue with Agnes over scenes she wants cut. 

"How is it coming with delaying filming?" Agnes asks, shutting down her laptop. Truthfully, she doesn't want Tom to delay filming. His demand is still rather regular but nobody is willing to sit around and wait while the star has a personal crisis. 

"I sort of wanted to talk to you about that," Tom says. "They are willing to schedule me a week break during your book launch, but delaying is being a problem. So I thought you could come to L.A. with me for the couple of weeks before you start, and then we can leave together directly for New York when the time comes."

Truthfully, Agnes feels very much like avoiding this conversation. But she remembers that she's been told that her instincts to run away from Tom must be fought against. This is her husband, and the fact that she loves him, even if it is currently the source of her agony, means that she has to try. "That might work," she says, resting her jaw on her hands.

Tom gets up and comes around to stand behind her. Gently, he grasps her shoulders and pulls her back in the chair, then begins to rub the sore muscles there, particularly around her neck. It is an ages old ritual between them. During those rare times when she was working and he wasn't, he got to see how much she fell apart when consumed by a story, forgetting nearly everything else. He would put extra effort into caring for her -- bringing her food, drink, making sure she showered, and most of all, making sure she didn't fall asleep at her computer. It was more than once that that happened. She would wake up so stiff and sore, so he would come in just about every hour and quietly rub her muscles into submission, and take a measurement of how heavy her eyes were getting. It took him some time to learn not to read over her shoulder -- she hated that. She would let him read when she was done...but she had also started to allow him to take peeks, if he promised not to ask any questions. And she promised not to fight him when he demanded she go to bed. Although more than once he woke up and found her with the laptop on her lap in the bed.

Drawing a breath, Agnes forces herself to submit. She shuts her eyes, just trying to concentrate on the fact that Tom is very good at this, that he knows her, how hard to push, how hard not to push, when to go up or down, and when to gently grasp her under her jaw and rotate her neck. For a little while, it feels good. And then Tom stops, his hands resting on her shoulders, his fingers long enough to nearly reach her collarbones. 

"Agnes," he says softly, pulling her back so the back of her head rests against his stomach. "I want to talk about what Dr. Summers said earlier."

"Which part?" She wants to pull away from him, but at the same time, she's so emotionally tired. She's missed being able to lean on Tom. She wants him to hold her and assure her that things will work out. But either he can't because he's the problem, or she won't let him because he's the problem. 

"About me wanting to fix our marriage. I thought I had made it clear to you, but I can't seem to remember if I actually said it."

"I...um...I thought the same thing, before. In her office." She looks up, feeling a bit relieved he's chosen this topic over one of the others. She doesn't quite know what to think of those others, yet.

Tom hovers over her, chin resting against his chest. He has aged well in the last ten years. His hair is a bit longer and darker, currently for his role, so the curls are highly prominent. There is a little bit of grey in his temples but not much. The lines on his face are a bit more prominent but they are more from laughing and smiling than age. This week his face is a bit thinner than it was a month ago, his cheekbones standing out more, the points of his nose and jaw making his face look a bit longer, not at all helped by his ginger goatee. He is still breathtakingly beautiful. He still makes her feel like she just doesn't match him, even if he doesn't mean to. 

Agnes blinks, looks down. Tom squeezes her neck, trying to pull her gaze back to him. 

"I do, Agnes."

"I know you do, Tom. I knew that when you went to Fr. Greene." She wants to pull away from him, but stops herself. Instead she winds up hovering half way between leaning back in her chair and forward on her arms. 

He continues. "I don't want to leave you. I want us to stay together. And I don't want you to leave me, and not out of pride or reputation or whatever you're thinking in that head of yours. I want you to stay with me because you love me, as much as I love you."

Agnes bites back something cruel. She can't go that route. She has to take a deep breath and say a quick Hail Mary before she speaks again.

"It's not going to be easy, Tom."

"I know that." He grasps her chin from behind, and turns the chair a little so that she doesn't have to strain her neck so much to meet his eyes. "I saw how you reacted in the office before. When I was talking about Clare, what attracted me to her."

"She was young and pretty. What man wouldn't have been interested." Uninhibited. Agnes can smell the fight that is coming from her own hurt at the use of that word. She doesn't have the strength for it.

"I've been thinking, and I don't think it was her. I mean, she's not the first young and pretty girl in the world. She's not the first one who paid attention to me. The more I think about it the less I realize it had anything to do with her in particular. I think it was with me. I think it was all about me, about being the center of someone's attention, about being let off the chain and allowed to do whatever I wanted to do. About someone letting me be selfish. Because I was selfish."

Agnes stares at him, trying to absorb his words. "So you don't feel like you're the center of my world?" she asks softly.

Tom looks away. She wants to think he's just trying to find words -- she doesn't see any guilt on him, but she does see his honesty, his open expression. "With us," he says, "it's always...about us. I mean, it's always...sacred. I guess I got tired of carrying my end."

"Mmmm...I guess what they say about the seven year itch is true," Agnes says, wishing she didn't sound so bitter.

Tom is kneeling beside her now, and has turned her chair so that they are facing each other. His hands grip either armrest, effectively keeping her pinned in place. 

"There is an intensity between us," Tom says, looking her full in the face. "Agnes, you know it, the first time we were together we even talked about it."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"No, of course not...but it's like eating filet mignon every night of the week and suddenly wanting a cheeseburger."

Something prickles along Agnes's shoulders. She can feel the words wanting out of her mouth, even though she doesn't want to let them. "You said Clare was uninhibited," she says. "What did you mean by that?"

"I..." he flounders. "I mean that she was...she...she didn't care about things. About anything. She did whatever the hell she wanted."

"And we don't?" Agnes' voice rises, sharpens. "Tom, can you honestly say, considering our sex life, the things we've done, the games we've played, that I'm inhibited? Do you really think that?"

Tom stares at her, the gears turning in his head. "Maybe it was the wrong word," he says.

"Maybe the word you wanted was slutty. She was a slut. She didn't care about anything because there wasn't anything to care about. I've tried to tell you, Tom. There are two kinds of sex. One is about love, and the other is about using someone for your own pleasure, even if you give pleasure in return. It's animalistic and it's beneath us, but you can't say that we haven't done it, or at least gotten close to it. And just because you wanted sex for the sake of sex? You wanting something meaningless? Something to make you feel good and not have to worry about doing anything in return? This is why my marriage is falling apart?"

"I'm not saying it like I'm proud of it," Tom says, an edge in his voice, although he doesn't withdraw from her. "I'm just trying to figure out why I did what I did."

Suddenly she is angry. So angry she feels she could hit him -- again. Instead, she stands up and this force knocks him back a few inches in one direction, the chair in the other. "Well, how about my theory about why you did what you did -- you're just a selfish asshole!"

"Agnes!" he roars as she charges past him, out into the living room. He gets up and follows, long legs making short work of it. "I was...I was trying to tell you the truth! I wasn't trying to start a fight!"

"How the hell did you expect me to react?" she thunders as she turns back to him. "You want to have all your perverse little fantasies fulfilled but you don't realize how dangerous it all is! I've tried to explain this to you before but you just don't understand. You never have! I will not let either one of us be reduced to just an object of pleasure, something for the other to use!"

"I do understand! But I broke! I broke and I'm sorry, that's what I'm trying to say!" he cries. 

They stand and stare at each other. 

"This, Tom," Agnes says, a deadly gravity in her breathless voice. "This is why I should have said no. This is why I said it wouldn't work between us. And being right is the worst feeling in the world. I just wish I hadn't taken seven fucking years to figure it out."

Then she is weeping. Openly, not even covering her face with her hands. Tom steps closer, and to her own surprise she lets him comfort her. He holds her close, and she cries into his shoulder, and she feels a few hot tears of his own slip into her hair. 

\----

"I'm thinking," Dr. Summers says when they are on her couch again, three days later, "that perhaps those kinds of conversations, for now, need to be kept to these sessions."

Awkwardly, Tom and Agnes exchange glances at each other from opposite ends of the couch. They have hardly spoken to each other in seventy two hours. As soon as their tears had stopped in the living room, Tom had let go of her, given her a somber glare, and left the room.

"I think both of you need to keep some kind of journal. When thoughts like that appear, write them down, and bring them to the next session. I think both of you are a bit trapped in a negative cycle, to use some cheap pop-psyche talk. You're caught up in the pain and the hurt, and while those things are normal, you both have to make a serious effort to let them go. For now, you need to concentrate on the good things in your marriage. Tom, have you read Agnes' new book yet?"

"I've started it but, I've been distracted," Tom says, his voice rather small.

"Agnes, you said you were looking at Tom's new script."

"Yes, but we haven't talked much about it."

"Well, all right. For the next three days, I want you two to focus on these things. Keep your conversations focused on particular topics. You are not to discuss the affair. Put it aside for the next seventy-two hours. I'm not saying that thoughts of it won't occur -- put those down in the journals. Think of it as airing it out. I'm not saying ignore the problem and hope it will go away, I'm just saying to put it aside for the time being -- a limited time. Do you understand?"

Reluctant, the couple nods.

"All right. Now, Tom, are you still on the couch?"

"Yes," he sighs. 

"That's something else that needs to change. The intimacy between you two has been disrupted and it needs to be reestablished."

"We tried it once already," Agnes says. 

"Tried?" Dr. Summers echoes.

"I, uh..." Tom says, but realizing that it's useless to be embarrassed considering all the other admissions he's made in this office, he charges on, "during the night, I tend to get a bit...handsy. In my sleep. It wasn't a problem before, but Agnes..."

"Maybe some pillows between you two," Dr. Summers says without missing a beat. "Until Agnes, you can withstand it. I know it's going to feel unfair to you, but you are going to have to make an effort to put aside whatever is causing you to be repulsed by Tom's physical advances."

Agnes narrows her eyes. "What's causing it is the thought of another woman--"

"Agnes," Dr. Summers says in mildly stern voice, "that happened once, over a month ago. It has not happened again. Tom is your husband, and if you see him as unclean because of his behavior, it may wind up doing more harm than good. Tom, have you gotten checked for STD's since your affair? Made sure that you're, for lack of a better word, clean?"

"I wore a condom," Tom mutters.

Dr. Summers almost smirks -- both can see it lingering around her lips. "Get checked, Tom. It may go a long way. And you are going to have to be patient. Agnes still needs a bit of time. I have to ask -- Tom, did you engage your wife in sex after you had your affair? Before she found out?"

Agnes' eyes widen and she looks at Tom. He is slowly turning crimson.

"Yes," he says, very quietly.

Agnes groans. "Oh, fuck."

"Well, we can both get checked," Tom says with a mocking cheerfulness. 

Agnes wills the glare she gives him to light him on fire. "Yes. And you can continue to sleep on the couch. Unless you'd like it better in a hotel room," she bites out. 

She has the satisfaction of seeing Tom look stricken, but Dr. Summers jumps in.

"All right, this is to be expected," the woman says, leaning forward, "but sniping at each other is not going to make it better. I know you both feel rather volatile, but you have to figure out where to stop. Otherwise it will just deteriorate and lead nowhere."

Agnes glares out the window. Tom sighs heavily, fiddling with the dress shirt and tie with his nervous energy.

"All right, next topic. Tom, where are you with the Clare situation? I mean, did you decide what to do about it?"

"I've been talking to our lawyer," Tom says, his voice a bit of a grumble. "He's contacted Clare, and for what I understand he's made some points about how it will be difficult for her to continue to work if the studios find out she's having flings with actors and causing scandal, but ultimately that won't work because studios see all publicity as good publicity. He's managed to get it down to half -- fifty thousand -- and is going to make her sign a contract saying that if she speaks publicly of the affair she will return the money and face criminal charges for blackmail. He's trying to make it as bad for her as he can."

Agnes just snorts. "Bully," she mutters.

"Agnes, do you have something to say? You must be angry at Clare for this."

"I don't blame Clare," Agnes says coldly. "She may be a man stealer but if the man isn't willing there's not a fuck-lot she can do."

"No, of course not," Tom barks, shifting on the couch so suddenly the whole thing vibrates. "I'm the asshole, right? I'm the dick who put my dick where it shouldn't have gone. And now I'm getting what I deserve, right?"

Agnes almost smiles. "You said it, not me."

"Fuck!" Tom gets up, throwing his arms up in the air. "Look, I know I screwed up, I know that! You don't have to keep rubbing it in my face! I can't turn back time, I can't undo it, Agnes!" He's yelling now, his face straining as his mouth widens and his cheeks blazing red. All his teeth show as he bites out his next words. "Is there anything I haven't done? I've gone to get us help, check. I've slept on the couch, check. I've taken your anger and your abuse and not defended myself, check. I even called the woman and have to shell out fifty thousand for my troubles, check! I did it in front of you to show you how serious I am about fixing this, but I can't take the repeated whippings, Agnes, I just can't! I try to be honest and you shove it back in my face! Tell me what you want, what will make you happy! Please!" He ignores the fact that Dr. Summers is on her feet and attempting, rather feebly, to insert herself between the couple. "If you want a divorce, fine!"

"Do you want a divorce?" Agnes shouts back, feeling a horrible sense of satisfaction that she finally got Tom to break. She doesn't realize that there are tears streaming down her cheeks.

"FUCK NO!" he screams. "But I'm not going to keep you in a prison where you're obviously miserable! I've fucked up, Agnes. I admit that! But you're the one who's supposed to be better than me, so be better than me and forgive me, dammit!"

"All right!" Dr. Summers says, her arms out. "Tom, please, sit." He does, with a thump, angrily glaring at both women. "Let's go with that. You said Agnes is better than you. What makes you think that?"

"She's always been better than me," Tom says, and it has a bitter edge to it.

"I never said I was! I never pretended I was!" Agnes growls.

"Deep breaths, both of you," Dr. Summers orders. "Tom, what do you mean by better?"

Tom is silent for several moments, gathering his thoughts through his anger. "When I first asked her out," he says, slowly, "and she wouldn't go out with me, at first I thought it was a 'try harder, idiot,' signal, but then she said she didn't understand why I was interested in her, said she wasn't the kind of girl that someone like me would be interested in. I mistook it for her thinking out of some kind of misguided low self image that she thought all actors belong with supermodels, some kind of crap like that. So I tried to explain it to her. Her answer was that we were from parallel universes." He steals glances at her as he talks, waiting for her to interrupt him, but she lets him go on. "That was when she explained to me her belief system. Very...traditional, she called it. What it came down to was what my expectations would be if we were in a relationship, that she wouldn't make me happy. Ultimately, that I would expect sex, and she was devoted to a chaste lifestyle."

"And that didn't put you off?" Dr. Summers asks.

"It put me off for a while but I realized..." He chokes up a bit, and Agnes feels a sharp pang in her chest, "that it was too late, that I was in love with her. That was why I chased her down that hallway that night. I was tiddly, not completely blasted, and I admit I was out of line but it gave me the courage I needed. When I tried again the next day, I said I was willing to wait on sex until marriage, but...."

"But?" Dr. Summers presses.

"I said," Agnes carries on, in spite of the fact that her throat was nearly closed, "that I didn't want him to be 'willing,' I wanted a man who understood why it was important, who did it freely and not out of forced choice." She shook her head. "But I was in love with him, too, and I don't expect people to change to please me. And I didn't think there was any future in it anyway, so I figured it was a waiting game."

Tom is looking at her, his eyes glistening with tears. "You do things because they're right," he says. "You always seem to know...I admit I don't know, I try to pretend I do but most of the time I'm just trying to please everyone. I tried to tell you this before, Aggie," he says, and the use of her nickname does something to her, like putting aloe on a bad sunburn. "Even when it was time to be together, you may not have known the mechanics of the thing, but you always knew what was pure and good. With us, it's always been sacrosanct. Maybe I cheated because I wanted something dirty and cheap. Something bad. Not because I don't love you, not because I want our marriage to end. Because you're right, and I've never been good enough for you--"

"Tom," Agnes weeps into her hands. "Please don't say things like that."

"But it's true, even you think it, sometimes. You've been thinking it for the last two weeks, don't tell me you haven't."

She shakes her head. "I've never, ever seen you as less than me. Not for one second. Ever."

"You said our getting married was a mistake," he says softly, looking down at his hands. "It's the second time you've said it, Aggie."

He's going to lose it. Agnes scoots over on the couch and puts her arms around his shoulders and pulls him to her. He doesn't return her embrace but he lets her kiss his cheek, his temple, the crown of his head. He falls limp in her arms, like a child. Eventually one hand finds her knee and squeezes, as if he's holding on for purchase.

"I'm sorry I said it, Tom," she whispers. "I love you. You know I let my anxiety get to me. You know I let myself think my feelings are facts when they aren't. I'm sorry I hurt you."

"It kills me when you say that, Aggie," he whispers hoarsely. "I just die a bit inside when you do. But I guess it's nothing compared to what I've done."

She shakes her head. "No, Tom." 

"Agnes," Dr. Summers says, very quietly, "do you believe in your marriage?"

The question takes her by surprise. Tom turns his chin to look at her, and the fact that she doesn't answer right away makes him wilt a little.

"I know it's a painful question," Dr. Summers says. "Especially right now, with all that has happened. But it's one you have to think about, Agnes. If you want to save your marriage, the first thing you have to decide is if you believe in it. Both of you." 

After a little more talking, Dr. Summers repeats her earlier advice, and when the couple returns home, Agnes finds herself so tired she needs to lie down. A few minutes after she finally gets comfortable, Tom hesitantly knocks at the door.

"May I...lie with you?" he asks meekly, sounding like a little boy who had a nightmare. 

Agnes nods, pats his space beside her. Tom lies on his back, and his hand seeks hers. She grasps it, and after a few more minutes, Tom gets brave and rolls on his side so that he's facing her. He's not too close -- a few inches of room between them where their entwined hands lie on the pillow -- but she can feel him watching her.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers.

She gives a dry chuckle. "We need adult supervision for that," she jokes. Then she sighs. "I'm just thinking...maybe I shouldn't go to L.A. with you for a while. Maybe we need a little break."

He scowls, gives a little jerk that shudders the bed. "What? But Fr. Greene said --"

"I know what he said," Agnes sighs. "I just think...Tom, I've been horrible."

He kisses her hand. "You haven't."

"No, I have. Not just about this, but...I mean, everything. I've been arrogant. Proud. Toward you, toward everyone. Being holy doesn't mean being holier-than-thou but that seems to have been my major accomplishment."

He strokes her cheek. She turns and looks at him. "I lied before. I have thought of myself as better than you. I shouldn't, but I do." She wants to tell him that even though he was in worldly esteem, she knew better. That she often shook her head, wondering when he was going to realize that there were so many more important things than critics and awards. How those things meant nothing. But she knew it would hurt him, so she stayed silent. "I mean, you were held so high, put on a pedestal. And of any woman in the world you could have chased after, you picked me."

"You were the only one worth chasing after," he says softly.

"No, I'm not." Her gaze returns to the ceiling. "I'm haughty and cold and I look down my nose at everyone." She let it become a source of pride. She let herself look down on him.

"Cold is the last word I'd use for you," he chuckles, pulling her chin back toward him to meet her eyes. "And you aren't haughty, and if you do look down your nose at people you've never let it show."

She shakes her head. "That's even worse. It's a horrible cliché but it's true -- it's not easy being me."

"I know that, Aggie. That's what I meant when I said you were better than me." She starts to protest but he places one long finger over her lips. "You try. You always try. You know who you are, you watch yourself, you try to stay faithful to what you believe. So many people in this world are apathetic and cold and don't know their heads from their asses. But you do. You're self-aware in a way I've never seen in anyone. And you screw up, yes, but you don't give up. You keep going."

"I'm not better than anyone," she whispers, gently moving his finger from her lips. "I'm worse because I'm supposed to know better. I've been given so much and I do shit with it. Nothing." I knew better than to marry you, she thinks, but I did it anyway and I'm not sure why.

"Aggie, please come here," Tom whispers, raising his arm. Reluctant at first, but she scoots closer to him, curling her little spoon into his big one. Her head rests on his arm, his bicep fitting into the curve of her neck and shoulder. He wraps both arms around her, pulling her close to him. In spite of her agony, it instantly warms and soothes her. Is this why? she wonders. Is my heart so much stronger than my head?

"I love you, Aggie. And I know you're not going to give up on me, and I won't let you go. We're going to get through this. I promise we are."

But Agnes thinks about Dr. Summer's question. Do you believe in your marriage? She knows she needs to talk to Tom, but right now he's so vulnerable and she's so confused, and she can't muster the energy to do it.

She falls asleep eventually, exhaustion getting its way.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Things go wrong in the bedroom. References to sex but nothing explicit.

7.

There is an addition in her dream.

A figure is watching the woman building the wall. He is very close, close enough to step over the border she has laid down, now three or four bricks high. Agnes knows it is a man from the set of the shoulders. But she can't make out a face. 

The man watches the woman building the wall. It is directly between them. In a shift, Agnes sees her own hands on the bricks, and looks over the edge to see Tom's shining brown leather shoes.

When Agnes wakes up, she has somehow turned in Tom's arms. There is a pillow stuffed under her head, but her face is right against Tom's upper chest, and his chin is resting against her forehead. She can feel his nose brushing against her hairline, his breath stirring the strands of her hair. 

She pulls her head back, but Tom's arm over her pulls tighter. She looks up at him, and his lips fill her vision. Before she knows it, they are kissing. His other hand, behind her, moves from her hair to her shoulders and back, shuffling his fingers up and down, just how she always liked it. His hand settles on her sweet spot, right on the back of her neck and up into her hair, to the very top of her crown, fingers dragging against her scalp, causing her to shiver.

Meanwhile the intimacy of their kissing has deepened. Agnes knows where this is going. It's not the first time they've done this, and it doesn't always lead to sex, but she's been married to Tom long enough she knows his signs.

It's been a while. Over two weeks. And Tom has always been very physical, unless he's working long hours and has no extra energy. She isn't sure if she's ready or not. So the moment she feels a break, she pulls back, pushing gently on his chest.

"I'm...I'm sorry," Tom says. It's his mantra, especially these days. "I just...you're so beautiful."

It had taken so many years for her to believe that. She knew he loved her and that he thought she was beautiful, but for that voice of his to grow loud enough in her head for her to believe it of herself, that had taken serious time. And lately...well, a lot of things were being second guessed.

She sighs and rests against the pillow. A nasty thought that he's just saying what she wants to hear in order to get her to give in to him implants itself in the back of her mind, but she shoves it away. Tom has endured a lot of penance and she has to remember that actions speak louder than words.

"Tom," she murmurs, keeping the few inches of space between them, "I just...we've said so much to each other these last couple of days. I just keep thinking about what you said about thinking I'm better than you."

"I shouldn't have said it the way I did," Tom sighs. "I said it like you were some stuck up prude, but I know you're not. When we nearly broke up over waiting on sex, I mean, I didn't really get until that moment how serious you were about it. How much you valued the importance of a healthy sexual relationship, and what exactly that meant."

Agnes lets out a little whimper. She wants to tell him how much she always believed that only through waiting, being chaste, could they really give themselves to each other. That it wasn't about denial, it was about letting something be everything it was possible to be. The true fruition of love and sex as they were created to go together. But his understanding of it was limited -- even though it had grown since their wedding night, and he'd experienced that completeness for himself. 

"I meant it when I said you were better than me. You had more control, you had stronger beliefs. Sometimes I wondered if I shouldn't have just let you go when we first started, just listened when you tried to explain how we weren't from the same universe. But by then I was so in love with you I realized I had to protect you, even from me."

"It wasn't easy," Agnes says. "I wanted to. I did. It's hard being chaste for two people. And I did my best to chase you off." Because I was scared of burning in hell, she thinks. 

"It was too late. I loved you too much." He rolls in toward her and kisses her. It's the first time in a while that he's kissed her. She has missed the feel of his lips, the sureness of his movements. 

At first, she is surprised to find how much she does WANT Tom. She has always wanted him. The hold of physical and sexual attraction to him has never waned, even though she tried hard not to let it control her through the years. So before she knows it, things have advanced. But they do not go how they are supposed to.

"Darling, what's wrong?"

"Don't worry about it, Tom. Just...it's okay, you can finish."

"But you're not--"

"I know. It's just...don't worry about me, please."

Men are a bit easier. Wind them up and they have to go. At least once they hit a certain point. But women...

He finishes and can barely look at her. She can tell from his face that he feels completely wretched, and she lays there, trying not to cry as he scurries off to the shower. 

It's no longer just one step forward and two steps back. It's one step forward and then a sharp shove down a steep slope into a patch of thorns. 

The pillows are between them that night. And Agnes is more determined than ever to stay behind when Tom leaves for L.A. next week. 

===========

"Okay, I don't think the situation is quite as bad as you think," Dr. Summers says a few days later. 

Of course they'd told her of their first attempt at sex since all hell broke loose. 

"First of all, how was it initiated?"

"We were in bed together," Agnes ventures. "We'd woken up from a nap."

"You were lying down together?" Dr. Summers seems encouraged by this bit of news. "What, like spooning?"

"Basically," Tom sighs. "Holding each other."

"After the previous session?"

They both nod. 

"The fact that you were able to do that, after all the things you said to each other, or didn't say," Dr. Summers points out, "is significant, and not to be ignored. That in itself was a move forward. But sometimes the reestablishment of that kind of intimacy lends itself to a couple thinking they should go forward to engage each other sexually. Sex is a deepening of that same bond, but in times like these, it's a bit of a cheat. A lot of couples think that after having a horrible fight they need to run off to bed together. It's an easy trap to fall into because of all the oxytocin. It's incredibly powerful. But the fact that you've refrained for this long has shown that you're not willing to cheat your way through this. You may have just jumped the gun."

"That's supposed to make us feel better?" Tom asks, uncharacteristically sarcastic.

"Bear with me," Dr. Summers says. "Now, let's break down the logistics so we can pinpoint where the issue is. Agnes, were you ready when things were initiated?"

"Physically, Tom is very thorough." Tom softly snorts from his side of the couch. The two have barely spoken again for the last few days. Tom can hardly look at her.

"Not thorough enough," he mutters.

"I'm talking psychologically," Dr. Summers corrects. "Tom, women are not set up the same as men. Agnes, what was your state of mind at the beginning? When Tom initiated, did you want to respond or was your first instinct to stop him?"

Agnes shakes her head. "I thought...it wasn't the best idea at first. Tom stopped right away when I showed any doubt, but then we started kissing again, and before I knew it...we were in the middle."

"So you were reluctant?"

She hesitates. Tom is going to be angry. "Yes... a little."

"Then why didn't you say something?" Tom cries.

"I didn't...I mean I wanted you Tom, I always want you! And...it had been a while for you and I didn't want you...I was trying to be your cheeseburger!" she finally snaps, grabbing one of the pillows and hurling it at him. 

He catches it easily. "What?" His puzzlement has gone from snarly to goofily baffled.

Agnes draws a deep breath. "You and I have gotten lucky in our marriage. Things have always been good between us. But you and I both know that sex is an urge. Sometimes you just need sex! And you needed it and I wanted...I thought..."

"Oh hell," Tom groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"So I thought I'd try." Agnes sighs. "I was trying. I was reluctant but once you start kissing me in that way my brain sort of fizzes out and I stop thinking, and I can't touch you enough." She blushes furiously and looks away. "I just let myself go with it. It was nice not to be thinking about anything...at least for a bit."

"It may have been too soon," Dr. Summers says. "But quite frankly from what I'm hearing it wasn't a complete disaster."

"How?" Tom asks. "How is it not a complete disaster when I cannot give my wife an orgasm?"

"Has that ever happened before?" Dr. Summers asks, unembarrassed.

"Only when I'm overly stressed out," Agnes says, hesitant. "And even then, I can count the times on less than one hand."

"But you were able to engage in sex," Dr. Summers points out. "This in itself is a good thing. Oxytocin in women creates a sensation of trust. The fact that Agnes was unable to orgasm shows that the trust relationship has not been repaired, but that she was willing to try, it shows a willingness to try and repair it. The fact that you consented, Agnes, that you said before that you did want Tom, is a sign that you do want things to move forward, to save your marriage."

"Fr. Greene told me not to press you for things, especially that," Tom interjects. "Why did you let me?"

"You didn't press!" Agnes insists. "And usually the stuff you do...works! It did at first, anyway! I didn't think it would change like it did!"

"Did something change during intercourse?" Dr. Summers asks. "Agnes, you said at first it was nice to stop thinking. Did you start thinking? What triggered it?"

Tom's eyes are bright and intensely focused on her. She shrugs. 

"I don't...I just suddenly wondered if...if he'd...if you'd--" she looks at Tom, "done things to her like you did for me. It just popped up in my brain and it was like a balloon deflating. I just saw you with her and I remembered her screeching about being pregnant and I just...lost it. I'm sorry."

Tom draws a deep breath. He seems to be struggling with his patience. "You should have told me to stop."

"Not necessarily," Dr. Summers says. "Agnes was attempting to be selfless. Women can't always maintain throughout the entire experience, especially when there are other stressors involved. She may not have orgasmed herself but that doesn't mean that the intimacy of the situation can't be enjoyed. Consent is critical -- and consent can continue even if orgasm isn't being achieved by both parties. It can be part of the healing process."

Tom groans. "Instead I got pissed because of my pride."

"No, Tom," Agnes said. "You just...you felt bad. You felt you had taken advantage of me. He's hardly spoken to me in two days," she adds to Dr. Summers. 

"Why don't we let Tom tells us how he feels?" Dr. Summers suggested, eyes on Tom.

He stares out for a few moments, and Agnes waits patiently as instructed. When he speaks, his voice is low and neutral. 

"I felt that I had ruined whatever we'd had before. That no matter how much talking we're doing, no matter how much therapy, no matter what we did, I'd ruined it. That deep down, you were never going to...ever be able to...again."

"And do you really think that's true?" Dr. Summers asks gently.

Tom looks at her, and then at Agnes. "Are you angry at me?"

"No, Tom," Agnes says softly. 

"Because I can't do that, Aggie. I can't be selfish like that with you. I can't use you. And...if you thought that you had to give into me to keep me from straying again..."

"I...thought it but that's not why I did it," Agnes admits. "I mean, I thought it but I didn't believe it. I didn't think you'd get mad at me and cheat again. You've been too torn up to do something like that. At least I thought so."

"This is important, both of you. Listen to what she's saying, Tom. And Agnes, hear yourself. You are admitting that you don't believe that Tom will cheat again. This is very important for you to remember, in this moment."

Tom nods. "Just tell me that it won't be like this forever. That we'll be able to get back to where it was."

"Of course we will, Tom," Agnes says, scooting closer to him. She doesn't feel that little twitch in her stomach, which comes on those rare occasions that she says something she doesn't entirely believe is true, and is surprised. It's the first time she's meant it, the first time she's really believed that this is going to pass, eventually. "It's just going to take time."

That's what she keeps telling herself, anyway.

He shakes his head. "It just wasn't worth it," he sighs, rubbing his hands up his neck and onto his face. "It was not worth this."

Again, Agnes wishes she could tell him. Again, she remains silent.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disaster strikes...but sometimes these things wind up doing more good than harm.

8.

The next week, things are a little better between them, but when Agnes says she still wants to stay behind when Tom goes to Los Angeles in a few days, it almost erupts into another fight.

"We've already got the tickets!" Tom argues.

"I can get them changed, for a fee," Agnes says calmly, as she washes dishes. She cooked dinner that evening, chicken and bacon and avocado baked between layers of crescent dough. Not complicated but comfort food. Tom has always loved chicken and avocado.

"Why, Aggie?" Tom pleads, coming over to stand beside her, taking a towel to dry a few dishes, although they usually just leave them in the drainer overnight. 

"I think a little distance would be good," Agnes replies. "I'm not mad at you, I'm not doing it because I want to be away from you. But I think we need a short break. I was considering going to see my sister and her kids for a week, hang out with my niece and nephew, before going to New York. And then after that I'll come to L.A."

"So you don't want me at the book launch?" Tom asks, his voice more strained. "I got time off for that."

She shakes her head. "You being there is just a distraction. The publishers don't like it." Even after this time, Tom is still a draw. He's always been more of a draw than her, even at her own book signings. Almost every Q&A she's ever done has had to begin with her making a statement that she will not answer any questions about her marriage to the famous Tom Hiddleston. 

"But--"

"We need to talk about something else, though," Agnes says, finishing the last dish and putting it in the drainer. She turns to him, her eyes serious. "What about Clare? Did your people handle her, pay her the money, what?"

Tom sighs. "They say they're dealing with her, but we haven't been able to get her to submit to a pregnancy test yet, and I don't want to pay her until I know."

"If you don't pay her and the news comes out..." Agnes trails off. She knows it will affect her opening week. She knows it will affect her book sales. She isn't sure she cares about that, but the people in charge of her contract do. Quite frankly, if spun correctly, it could increase her sales. But she refuses to look at things like that. There are people paid to deal with that.

Tom grasps her shoulders. "It will be okay, Aggie."

But it is not okay. Not by a long shot.

They compromise -- they both fly to New York together and then part ways. Agnes gets a transfer to Indianapolis and goes to see her sister. It's nice, for a week, relaxing with family. Each night, they text each other goodnight -- it's a tradition between them when they're apart, always saying goodnight. Depending on the time difference, either one of them could be first, but this time she's three hours ahead, and texts it first. Tom leaves his three hours or so later, which wakes her briefly but she sees it, smiles, and goes back to sleep.

But then she returns to New York for the launch, and her stylists make her up, and she goes out to make her little speech about her book, and the questions and answers session beings, and the third woman to get the microphone stands up.

The second Agnes looks at the woman full in the face, she knows. She has a sneer on her pretty features. She is petite, and brunette, and has nicely proportioned breasts and hips, an hourglass figure. She is Tom's type -- Agnes has seen pictures of his ex girlfriends to know what he goes for, which is what made his attraction to Agnes herself so strange, in the beginning.

"Hello, Mrs. Hiddleston," the woman says, and her pretty red lips form just enough of a smirk over her words that Agnes' skin gets cold. "I was wondering how it feels to be the wife of an unfaithful husband?"

"I'm...sorry?" Agnes hears herself say. She heard the question. She knows where this is going. This is something she would write, a perfect scene of drama and tension. But she can't quite make herself believe this is reality. She actually blinks hard for a moment, tries to wake herself from the nightmare. 

"You heard me. How are you coping with your husband cheating on you?"

Someone pushes her aside. It's Charles, who has always handled her with utmost precision and has always been able to think on his feet. "Young lady, you are in public. I suggest you do not humiliate yourself further by asking indecent and ridiculous questions."

The whole crowd has gone into an uproar. The collective gasp breaks into frantic whispers, turning heads and rolling eyes. Agnes can't stop looking at this woman, who she somehow knows is Clare. By now Agnes is frozen -- she couldn't speak if she wanted to.

"The only one humiliated is the precious Mrs. Agnes Hiddleston," Clare continues. "Because he slept with me. Well, neither one of us slept, I guess that's just one of those funny phrases your writers like to use?" Clare's voice has gone up to be heard over the crowd. The cameras are clicking and the microphones are coming closer to this adulteress to catch every word she says. "But I can give you some pretty juicy details of what we did do, would you like to hear? Might spice up your stories a bit."

Agnes is sure she's going to pass out. Instead when she gets her feet to unlock her first instinct is to flee. She nearly runs to the room where she'd been waiting before, snacks and drinks stocked for her comfort. She collapses into the closest chair and buries her face in her hands. 

Someone gets a picture of her. Within a few hours, Tom is calling her. She won't answer the phone, she can't trust herself to speak. Charles has removed her from the environment after giving the security a tongue lashing and making a statement to the journalists that the woman is obviously an attention whore and should look into some serious therapy. He does not confirm or deny events of which he has no knowledge.

So they sit in her hotel room while the phone rings and then clicks to voice mail. Charles, after he has made sure Agnes won't be bothered for the rest of the day, approaches with a tall glass of cider, her favorite, and hands it to her.

"Let the healing begin," he says in typical Charles fashion. He always had a way with the gallows humor. 

She takes the cider, drinks it. She is dehydrated from all the crying she's been doing. It's like it happened all over again. Like it's less than a month ago and she's finding out all over again that Tom cheated on her. All the progress, all the trust rebuilt.

It's gone. Like it never was.

Charles sits down across from her. They've been friends a long time. Charles is a writer himself but when her career took off she needed his counsel too much and paid him to be her handler. It isn't a full time job, only necessary when she has to tour a bit, like now. But before then he had always been a good sounding board, giving the best advice.

She isn't sure she wants to hear it now.

"When did you first find out?" he asks.

"He told me a few weeks after it happened," she manages, with a bit of a buzz starting in her head. "That woman wanted money to keep her mouth shut. His publicists were supposed to be handling it. I think they stalled her too long so she decided to act on her own."

"So much for money," Charles scoffs.

Agnes' reply is a dry, humorless laugh. "Please! Everyone will want to hear her story now. She'll get her money, from the story she sells. The woman who publically destroyed Tom and Agnes Hiddleston." She shakes her head as she feels her throat close. "I can't believe this."

"Well, there's one solution," Charles says. "Don't let her."

Agnes just stares at him for a moment. "I know you believe in keeping your head high even in light of bad circumstances, Charles, but I am not finishing the tour."

"I don't care about the tour. The tour isn't necessary anymore. This kind of publicity is going to work in your favor, much as you might hate that. What we saw down there is going to put you on the best seller list by the end of the week. The name of your book will be on the heels of every press release. But if you and Tom had worked out things between you, or were in the process, you need to remember that. It didn't just happen again. The scabs have been torn open but the wound isn't fresh, remember that. So you can't go punishing everyone, especially not Tom, for what happened out there."

Punishing everyone...her fans, in particular. If she cancels the tour, they won't get their autographs. Clare will win. Clare will get her to bolt back to her hole and hang her head as if SHE did something wrong.

And Charles is right. She didn't. Things were getting better. Letting Clare ruin that will mean she wins.

"I'll do the rest of the signings, but no more question and answer periods," Agnes says.

Charles smiles. "I already told them that."

They continue talking. Agnes' brain is a labyrinth of emotion and she keeps getting twisted around, but Charles helps her navigate it with a cool head. A few hours later, when Agnes finally pulls herself together (and drinks enough cider) to finally call Tom, she can still barely talk. 

"I've already got people on it," he says, first thing. "Aggie, sweetie, please talk to me. I wish I could be there...I wish you'd have let me be there. I can be on a plane tomorrow, just say the word."

But she can't talk. All she can do is sob quietly as she holds the phone. She doesn't even have it to her ear -- she's put him on speaker, even though she's alone. 

"Aggie, I'm--"

"DON'T SAY YOU'RE SORRY!" she screams suddenly. "DON'T EVER SAY IT AGAIN! EVER!"

The pause is deafening. When he speaks again she can hear his tears. "I love you so much, my darling. Please remember that."

After a full minute of trying to speak, Agnes finally manages, "I love you, too." 

***************

Agnes' fans rally. The support is a bit surprising, and it warms her heart. 

They bring her little trinkets and gifts to help her feel better. Baked goods, stuffed animals, flowers. Nobody says anything about the elephant in the room, but she can see it in their eyes. At first she worries it's pity, but they talk about her book, about how much her characters mean to them, and the subject slowly changes. Even though the gossip rags can't stop talking about how Tom Hiddleston cheated on his wife, for a few days Agnes is wrapped in a cocoon of ignorance, and she likes it.

Then she has to go to L.A.

Tom is filming the day she chooses to arrive. He wanted to pick her up, greet her, but there is no way she'll let that happen. The media circus is already unbearable. She has to hide under a baseball hat and thick ray bans to keep from being recognized. Even then it doesn't quite work, there are pictures of her the next day. 

Tom comes home that night to find her lying on the bed, watching a movie. She is turned so that she is on her belly, head toward the television and feet on her pillow. She has already showered, unpacked. She has no appetite -- travel always wipes that away.

It's after ten o'clock but he has already showered on the set and come to her fresh although exhausted. He tosses his stuff down, pulls the deadbolt and security lock on the door, and then crawls onto the bed next to her, wrapping himself around her.

She keeps watching her movie. 

This moment brings back memories. Memories of her napping on the couch and waking to find he had taken up the other end and was resting one of his legs across her ample backside, the other tucked between her and the couch. It never bothered her to find him like that. Even though she would tickle his feet...and then he would respond by tickling hers...which was a mistake because it would lead to other things...

Tom rests his head between her shoulder blades. His arms slip down and cross under her, pressing against her breasts. She has the terrible urge to push him away but lets him hold her. His hips rest against her upper thighs, his legs wind with hers, and it can't be comfortable for him, practically lying on her as he is, but he stays that way, patient, until her movie is over. Then, when the credits roll, he pulls back, yanking her with him, and turns her so that she has to look at him.

He smooths her hair away from her face, continues to stroke her forehead, cheeks, neck, even when her hair is no longer in the way. 

"I love you," he whispers against her ear. 

She finally lets herself wind her arms around his neck. Hard. Almost a choke hold. After a few minutes she lets herself cry, and lets him comfort her. He does not apologize again. He hates himself for not making sure Clare was dealt with and solemnly swears he will do everything he can to destroy her. And he calls himself a bunch of terrible names until she silences him with a few fingers over his lips. Then, in an attempt to soothe her, he quotes to her one of her favorite poems -- only a favorite because he had introduced it to her, she had never cared much about poetry before him. It's by John Donne, who she doesn't know, and it's called To His Mistress Going to Bed

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,  
Until I labour, I in labour lie.  
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,  
Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.  
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,  
But a far fairer world encompassing.  
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,  
That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.  
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime,  
Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.  
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,  
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.  
Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,  
As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals.  
Off with that wiry Coronet and shew   
The hairy Diadem which on you doth grow:  
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread  
In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.  
In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be  
Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee  
A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though  
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,  
By this these Angels from an evil sprite,  
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.  
Licence my roving hands, and let them go,   
Before, behind, between, above, below.  
O my America! my new-found-land,  
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,  
My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,  
How blest am I in this discovering thee!  
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;  
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.  
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,  
As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be,  
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use  
Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views,  
That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a Gem,  
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.  
Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made  
For lay-men, are all women thus array’d;  
Themselves are mystic books, which only we   
(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)  
Must see reveal’d. Then since that I may know;  
As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew  
Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,  
There is no penance due to innocence.  
To teach thee, I am naked first; why then  
What needst thou have more covering than a man.  
They crawl into bed. For the first time in weeks they sleep wound together, like they did before. They make love that morning and Tom talks to her the whole time, not allowing her brain to wander, reminding her of his love. And finally it's the way it used to be. At least for that time.

****************

She continues to dream about the wall. Each time it comes, the wall is at different heights. Sometimes it's so high she can't reach the top, yet the bricks keep coming, keep stacking against each other. Sometimes she can see Tom's face on the other side, but he's just standing there, his expression so dull it hardly looks like him at all. This morning, it feels like the wall is going in reverse, instead of bricks going up, they are coming down. It's an unusual alteration.

When Agnes wakes up, Tom has already ordered room service and the smell of bacon makes her sit up in bed.

"Don't you have to be on set?" she asks.

Tom stirs his coffee. He has pulled on a pair of sweatpants, but remains shirtless. Her eyes drift over his chest -- and then to the breakfast he has ordered. Her caffeinated soda sits in its can beside a glass of ice -- she rarely ever drank hot drinks, especially not in the heat that Los Angeles is experiencing this September. 

"I don't have to be in until later. Night shoot tonight." He sips. "To be honest, I'm pretty surprised. I expected you to be...in a much worse state."

His expression is at once concerned and suspicious. And something else...shamed? He looks a bit like a puppy that expects to be scolded. 

She crawls out of bed -- and doesn't fail to notice Tom's eyes drop to below her waist. All she's wearing is a rather long tank top at the moment, thanks to earlier events. "To be honest, I'm kind of surprised myself." She comes over and sits down, hiding her lower half with the table.

Tom leans forward, reaching across the table with his palm up. She doesn't take his hand right away, choosing instead to pour herself some beverage -- she's rather dehydrated at the moment. But she's never been able to resist the draw of his long fingers, and lets her wrist lie across his palm. 

"So what happened?" he asks softly. 

She sighs. She honestly doesn't want to talk about it. It has taken absolutely every single bit of her reserve strength not to return to the utter mess she was almost a month ago -- has it been that long? It doesn't quite feel like it. 

"Haven't you checked youtube?" she remarks quietly.

Tom actually blushes. "I was sent a few links. I saw...but I don't care what I saw, Aggie. Tell me what you saw."

She shrugs. "She stood up, asked me how it felt to have you cheat on me. After that it all went to chaos, I don't remember much. Didn't do the signing. Everyone was pissed, more at her than me. I think she was escorted out -- Charles was working on getting her cited for creating a public disturbance and the people in charge of the event wanted to press charges...I have no idea how they'll do that." 

"And...what did you do?"

"Charles got me back to the hotel. Plied me with alcohol, you know how he is."

Tom's cheek twitches. "Well, I'm glad he was there."

"I'm glad you weren't," Agnes says. At Tom's stunned, indignant expression she rushes on. "It would have been a three-ring circus. For all we know that's why she came -- to see you."

"And when I wasn't there that's when she decided to humiliate you," Tom presses, his fingers closing around her tightly. "If I'd been there I could have--"

"Could have what?" Agnes tries to pull her arm back but Tom resists. She doesn't fight. "Tom, I didn't want to pay her either, but it's clear we should have. And a sane person doesn't do what she did. You can't reason with crazy."

He frowns at her, studying her face. "Again, you are much calmer about this than I expected. I mean, I half prepared to come in here last night to you throwing things at me."

"I..." She doesn't want to tell him. Truthfully, Tom has always been a little jealous of her friendship with Charles. But she can't hide it from him. "I was, a bit. I did sort of feel like all the work we've done these last three weeks or so was for nothing, but...Charles talked me down."

Tom's cheek twitches again. His grip on her loosens a bit but he doesn't let go. "I see."

"He was right, though," Agnes says, tightening her hold on Tom's wrist. She can feel his pulse quickening a bit through her fingertips. "He said I can't punish you for what Clare did. That what happened was really between you and me, and her actions just show her to be a desperate and despicable person..." her face twists. "Of course, this just leads me to wonder what the hell you saw in her...but I could tell by looking at her that she was your type."

Tom just looks down at his coffee, which is getting cold.

"You're upset," Agnes says softly.

"I still wish I'd been there," Tom sighs, finally releasing her and sitting back. "But apparently you didn't need me, Charles was there."

Agnes scowls. "I don't get how you're still jealous of him. You know there is absolutely no attraction between us at all, right? I mean, he's practically my older brother."

"You of all people know that there are other things in the world beside sex," Tom says, getting up to dump his cold coffee and pour himself a fresh brew. But he just stands there at the sink, his back to her, for several moments. "I just...hate that he can do what I can't. That he comforted you when I couldn't."

"That's just his talent. It's not unique to me," Agnes says, getting up and coming over to him. She grasps the strings of Tom's sweatpants and tugs. "Tom, come on, please be fair. If you'd been there we would have screamed at each other -- I would have thrown things at you. It would have been a disaster."

"And instead we wind up making love this morning," Tom sighs. She can't read his tone. But she does wrap her arms around his waist from behind and lay her head against his back. 

"You're too close to it, Tom," she whispers. "We needed someone outside of this. That's why we go to therapy, right? Why Dr. Summers helps us? Charles just...does that naturally. It's not because I'm closer to him than I am to you."

As the words leave her mouth, she finds her stomach giving that little twitch when she says something that isn't entirely true. It isn't that Charles knows her better. He knows her differently. Charles has been her friend for nearly twenty years, and he's a fellow Catholic -- and not a casual one, like so many others she knows. He understands the world from her perspective. He knows what to say to her. It isn't so much that Tom doesn't, but that Charles' words are like a practiced surgeon. Tom relies more on their emotional ties.

Gently, she can feel the tension start to leave Tom. His hand idly rubs her joined hands at his waist. "I...I know. I just worry that..."

She waits for him to finish. Finally, he turns around, his arms pulling her closer. 

"You know he never thought we should get together," Tom finally says.

Agnes just blinks slowly. She knows. And his reasons had been excellent. The lone voice backing up that nagging in the hind part of her brain. But he'd never pushed, merely given sound advice when she asked him what to do. It was the first time she went against it, wasn't the last either...

"And him knowing...about all of this. I mean, you've already said it." He rubbed his face. "I just feel like such a failure. To you, to both of us."

Agnes stares up at him. She feels sorry for him....a strange mix of pity and actual compassion that baffles her. She knows what it's like to do something she regrets. She knows that feeling of guilt. Maybe she's never done something quite like this, but she knows the process of sin and repentance well enough. She knows the self-loathing, intimately. That someone like Tom could have the light taken from him, even if it was by his own hand...but that is the way of sin, she knows. It's always by your own hand. And you ask yourself, why did you do it, when you knew, ultimately, that the price wasn't one you were willing to pay?

The question still hangs over her. Why? 

"You're not a failure, Tom," she whispers.

He looks up at her. "Aren't I?"

She shakes her head. "I know what it feels like to hate yourself. But we have to push on. We have to heal and learn. What other choice do we have -- we can't just lie down and die, can we? Come on, sweetie," she says softly, pulling him with her. She lies down on the bed, and motions for him to join her. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and has him lay his head on her chest. She strokes his hair, his arms, his back, and they just hold each other that way, for almost an hour. 

"Tom," she whispers in his ear. He turns his head so that he is looking at her, their faces very close. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For...for yelling at you on the phone. Before. I mean, I know Dr. Summers and Fr. Greene both told you that you would need to continue to apologize. I know that's what you were doing and I...I shouldn't have stopped you. I certainly shouldn't have yelled at you like that."

He considers her words. 

"And don't tell me that you deserve it," she says wearily, but strokes his thick hair through her fingers. 

He sighs. "Agnes," he begins, slowly, lifting his head up to rest it on his hand, "I know you're not fond of that phrase. 'I'm sorry.' I know how little it means to you. I know that you think that they're just words. But you of all people, as a writer, should understand, as I understand, how important words are. Don't you?"

She watches his eyes as he searches hers. It was something she hadn't quite considered before.

"I know I say it a lot. But words are important, even if they're repeated over and over again. When you say your rosary, don't you repeat the same words over and over? The Hail Mary, the Our Father? How many times? And every single day? You think God gets tired of hearing the same words over and over? You think He would have given the world such a prayer if that repetition is repugnant to Him?"

Agnes lifts her head up a bit. This kind of insight from Tom is...unique. The fact that he would make it causes her heart to begin beating a bit quicker. "I...I guess you're right," she whispers.

He gives her a little smile. "I mean, what are you really saying? You're saying, 'I love you.' And when I tell you I'm sorry, once, a dozen times, that's what I'm saying. That's what I've been making myself say instead of 'I'm sorry.' But if I slip, please remember it's the same thing."

She pulls his face closer to hers and kisses him. They make love again. When they get up again, they use the microwave to re-heat their cold breakfast.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter -- Agnes and Tom in L.A., away from their therapist. So far things are going well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter this week! It just turned out that way. Sorry. :)

9.

If Agnes thought she had been punishing Tom, it is nothing against the onslaught that awaits him. 

The tabloids got the head-start, but when the serious entertainment stations started to run with it, both husband and wife were continuously badgered by reporters and paparazzi. Security was increased on the set. Agnes couldn't go anywhere alone -- she found that out the first day she attempted to go shopping just to get herself a few things at a corner market. She went into the store for ten minutes and emerged into a faceful of cameras. She almost staggered into one and knocked it over, prompting insults from the belligerent hounds. 

The next day she has a driver to take her wherever she wants -- she knows it's a bodyguard, but she doesn't argue.

They are on an eight hour time difference with London, so Skyping with Dr. Summers is difficult. Tom has the next day off so they see if she can fit them in at any time. At one o'clock, nine o'clock in London, they are able to connect. The connection is not great, but they are able to tell her all the goings on. She is encouraging, telling them they sound like they are doing well in spite of the circus. 

"It's important not to push too hard," Dr. Summers says in the brief time she has. "And I'm happy that you were able to connect on an intimate scale. No problems this time, Agnes?"

Agnes just blushes. Tom squeezes her hand.

"Okay, well, we need to be careful not to get ahead of ourselves. Be cautious. I know the eight hour time difference is going to make things difficult but we need to check in regularly. Tom, be sure to notify me of days off in advance so I can clear you a space. I'm sure you'll be on set for long hours so we won't push when you're filming."

They agree, but it's easier said than done.

A few days after Agnes arrives in L.A., Tom takes her to the set to introduce her around. At first she doesn't want to go -- but Tom insists that they have to hold their heads high and keep their problems between them. And besides, he says, they're doing well. Dr Summers even said so. People need to see that.

Everyone is friendly and welcoming. But in spite of all that, Agnes feels a bit uncomfortable around Tom's beautiful and much younger co-star, Regina, who plays the illustrious Annie who helps Tom's Andy pull his life together. They laugh over how the film is named "Raggedy," after the Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls.

Not only is she a good thirteen years Tom's junior, but she is also very much Tom's type. Long dark hair, hourglass figure. And a good foot shorter than him. 

She's a sweet woman, but Agnes keeps thinking of how Regina looks at Tom. It's normal for so many people to be star struck around him, something Tom has never tolerated, so he's quick to be warm and reassuring. It's apparent the two of them already have an easy banter and good chemistry. Agnes has watched a dozen women over the years play opposite Tom.

Not one of them ever made her stomach twist. 

She tells herself that it's just the situation. The scandal of the affair making her jumpy. Tom loves her. She wants to trust him, she has to trust him or their marriage is already dead. But the way Regina looks at Tom...

And Regina knows, like all the rest of the world, that Tom has been unfaithful. And if a man is unfaithful once, chances are he can be persuaded to do it again.

Agnes has spent so much time working on rebuilding her relationship with Tom that this new threat is something she can't even contemplate. So she shoves it away, telling herself she's being silly. However, this never works for Agnes. Being a person who battles anxiety, of course it effects her. It makes her sullen.

She doesn't say anything to Tom, though. Not at first. She waits for it to run its course. Sure, she's been jealous of his co-stars and female friends before but it's a surface jealousy quickly disproven by Tom's affectionate nature. 

Still, she stews. She stews so much that one morning, she sneaks away and spends a restless two hours walking up and down the beach and forgets to reapply her sunscreen. She reads for an additional hour, trying to distract herself, but that evening, when she gets home, she realizes that she has burned herself badly. Lobster red, on her upper arms, shoulders, chest, forehead, nose, and a little on her back, although it was better protected because she was wearing a scarf that draped down over it. 

She gets back to the room and peels off her clothes. Even her legs have gotten burned -- from shin to ankle, not so much on her calves, but her legs were unprotected because she'd been wearing capris. Then she realizes there is no aloe for her to smooth over the burns, and when she tries to contact Tom to ask him to bring some home, she only gets his voice mail, and has to leave a message.

When Tom does arrive, not as late as she worried he would, he bears a bottle of the thick green goo, having texted her that he would get it, but she had spread herself on the softness of the velveteen blanket underneath the comforter, head partially lolling off the edge of the foot of the bed, and ignored any sounds her phone made. 

"Good God, darling, what did you do?" he asks. He turns on more of the lights, as she only had the glow of the television and one of the bedlamps on. She groans in reply.

"Forgot to reapply," she mutters. 

Tom surveys the situation. "Lobster red. I haven't seen you this badly burnt since our honeymoon."

"Sunscreen was expired, didn't realize it," she whimpered, "This is just my own stupidity."

"Shhh." He pours a healthy clump onto his fingers and very lightly touches her. He starts on one arm and rubs so lightly that she can't feel his fingers -- just the coolness of the aloe. He takes a long time, working a thick layer all around her upper arm -- the back is worse than the front -- and then her other arm, the same. He uses a few fingers to get her forehead and nose, then very delicately starts to spread it on her chest.

"I can," she groans, lifting her arm for the bottle. 

"Just lie still," Tom admonishes, and there is nothing kinky as he smoothes the aloe on top of her breasts and in the center of her chest. That part, she knows, is going to hurt the most, as the skin there is always being wrinkled with movement.

"Your back?" he offers.

"No, it's fine," she insists. "But my legs---" She lifts one into the air and he sees it, a bright red streak going down her shin. He applies a double layer there, first going to one, then the other, then back, and back again. The aloe is absorbed so quickly that he returns to her shoulders and arms, testing the layer he put on previous and then starting a new one.

"Tom, you don't," Agnes whines, "have to..."

"I know," he says in that soft, dismissive way as he tests how hot her skin is, even with the aloe. It dries up so fast. 

"I felt so bad," she murmurs.

"When?" he asks.

"On our honeymoon," she sighs. "I mean, even if it wasn't until toward the end. I was so happy, spending time with you. I remember being even happier about that than about...other things." She gives him a look and he smirks at her. 

"Other things," he echoes teasingly. Her code word. 

She chuckles. It hurts but she can't help it. "I was just so excited that I was going to have you all to myself. I didn't care what we did..."

"We did everything," he reminds her. "Snorkeling, jet skiing, parasailing..."

"Didn't care. I was with you."

"We haven't been to Hawaii since," Tom murmurs thoughtfully as his fingers slide over her skin. "Maybe we should go back."

She falls silent for a moment. And as if Tom reads her mind, he continues.

"But we don't have to go that far back for good memories, do we? Our honeymoon?"

She considers. "Remember the night we both had insomnia so bad that we went and drove around London for hours? I felt like we were Adam and Eve in that movie of yours..."

"The one you didn't like," he says, still teasing. "Only Lovers..."

"You know that isn't true," she admonishes, her tone light. "I thought it was adorable. I thought you and Tilda were adorable. I loved how you would walk together, how she would hold you all the way around your skinny little waist." She lifts her legs and gives his hip a push with her toes. "I was borderline jealous. But I never understood how in the hell vampires have sex."

"Suspension of disbelief, darling," he sighs, rolling his eyes, but he's still smiling.

"Hello, suspension of disbelief came with the word vampires," she argues. "But if you're a vampire, how do you have sex? It's the same problem as Twilight. If you're undead, your body doesn't function like a human. You don't eat, you don't digest. Stands to reason your parts don't work either. That organ of yours needs blood flow, buddy. How does a vampire get blood to flow to that part? Plus there's no sperm, so no ejaculation, either. Anne Rice was right and the rest of you are all wrong."

Tom just chuckles and shakes his head. He knows better than to argue with her on this. It's not the first time it's come up and it won't be the last.

Agnes finally gets up and agrees to go to bed, although she can hardly sleep with the pain, and has to lie on her back with almost no covers, so the air conditioning had to be turned way down in the room. Even at two in the morning, Tom rouses himself to reapply her aloe, soothing her back into a light sleep.

When morning comes and he has to leave, he makes sure the aloe is within reach and kisses both her cheeks before leaving. He has a funny look on his face before he goes, but there isn't any time to talk about it until that night, when he gets back at about seven. He checks her forehead as if he's concerned she might have a fever.

"What are you doing?" she asks when his hand slides down to her neck, still checking. 

"Making sure you aren't feverish," Tom says. "That sunburn is pretty severe. Some people get sick when they get sunburned that badly."

"Not me, just pain," she sighs. She grips the bottle when he reaches for it. "I got it, it's fine."

Tom touches the back of her arms. "You're still really warm," he says. "Come on, don't be difficult." He leans down and whispers, very softly in her ear, "Let me take care of you."

She relents instantly and lets him coat her again. She smirks at him when he reaches the bright patch on her chest. "Pervert. You're just using this as an opportunity to feel me up."

His returning smirk makes her tingle. "See, you've caught me. Too bad your top wasn't cut a bit lower."

"I'll work on that for next time." He goes down to her legs, sitting lotus style on the floor, pulling her foot into his lap for better access to her shins. She grimaces at him. "Haven't shaved yet."

"We can shave them later."

"We?" she says with an arched eyebrow. "You haven't shaved my legs since our third anniversary."

"Well, no reason not to bring the tradition back," he says as he uses the excess aloe on his fingers to massage her calves. "Maybe we could use that egg thing you have to get your heels too while we're at it."

Agnes almost laughs. "I remember that one time you attacked me with that thing on the couch because I'd waited too long."

"You kept scraping me during the night," Tom defends himself. He rubs some aloe on her heels for good measure. 

She watches him for a few minutes, remembering that moment when Tom had grabbed her ankle and yanked it high, tipping her over shrieking and laughing on the couch as he ran that ped-egg over her heels, how it could have been mortifying but he'd made it funny, sweet, endearing, and then says, "I'm the one who's supposed to be paying more attention to you."

"And you are paying more attention to me. You're paying attention to me paying attention to you," he teases, both of her feet now sitting in his lap. Then he stares at her, his brow wrinkling. "And there it is."

"What?"

"That line you get on your forehead when you're stewing over something."

She shakes her head. "I'm not--"

"No, I know you aren't angry, but you're doing that worrying thing again. You're letting something eat at you and I want to know what it is."

"So you've been softening me up," she remarks, wiggling her toes. He stills them by clamping his fingers down on them. 

"Tell me," he insists, but his voice is gentle.

She draws a deep breath and lets her head lie back on the top of one of the hotel suite's easy chairs. She stares at the ceiling while Tom waits, patient. He knows she'll tell him, she just has to figure out a way to say it. Finally, she just goes straight for brutal honesty -- one of her strengths.

"I don't like your co-star," she says, raising her head and looking down at him. "Regina. I don't like her."

He frowns. "Did she do something to offend you?"

"Yes. She eyeballed you."

Tom snorts. "Women eyeball me all the time, according to you, anyway."

Agnes shakes her head. "No, Tom. I just can't help but worry that she's sizing you up. But I've been trying to convince myself that I'm just paranoid because of...well, you know."

He considers this for a long moment. Then, his fingers encircle her ankles, his thumbs tracing over the inside joints, very lightly. He looks up at her, and in that moment she feels like she did when he proposed to her, against all rational thought. 

"Aggie," he says, and then gets on his knees, gently parting hers to kneel between them, his hands going to her hips. "You know the worst part of all of this?"

She just stares at him, unable to pick one thing.

"I mean, the embarrassment, the humiliation, to either one of us, and the fact that I hurt you, all of it is bad enough. Any one of them alone would be enough. But the one thing I just want to scream and rail at, the one thing I sometimes...it breaks me down in the worst moments. It's your trust." His eyes meet hers evenly, steadily. "You don't trust me. And I understand why you don't. I deserve that you don't. But it hurts the most that you don't. It's the one thing to make me hate every moment of...what I did. I don't even know how I'm going to get through the publicity when they release that film. I'm considering breaking contract for promoting it and paying whatever penalties for what they demand. I just want nothing to do with it because I know it's just going to remind us both of..."

She reaches over and places her fingers on his lips. For a moment she just keeps them there, and he shuts his eyes, seeming to focus on her touch. Then, gently, she runs them over the soft, thin goatee around his mouth. 

"Tom," she says, "I know. I know all of it. But I can't lie to you. I love you so much, so very much--"

He grasps her fingers and presses them to his lips, and kisses them, then kisses her palm. 

"Tom," she goes on, pressing against him to get his attention. "I said I'm not going to lie. You've been a good husband during all this, and we're on the path to healing, slowly. But it's a tenuous path. And I can't promise that I'm going to be able to walk it straight. And the thought of you with her...at all..." she cringes and pulls her hand away, to his obvious dismay. "I know you're under contract to work with her. And I know she's not the girl you cheated with. But I just want you to promise me, because I'm your wife and we're going through this -- promise me you won't be alone with her. Under any circumstances."

She can see Tom turning the thoughts over in his head. "Do you want me to tell her?" he asks plainly.

She shrugs. "If you have to tell her it will be because I'm right. And she'll try to talk you out of it by giving you a speech about how I'm a jealous, possessive wife and I need to get over myself. Or maybe she'll point out the obvious and say of course you're not happy with just me, you need someone more your speed--"

Anger flashes in Tom's eyes. "You know I've completely forbidden you from saying things like that, Aggie. I don't care the circumstances."

"I'm not saying them," she insists. "I'm telling you what she's going to say. How she's going to try and seduce you. Or maybe she'll take some complete other track. But I don't want you telling yourself or me that she's harmless, that she's just a friend, or any kind of pacifying bullshit. You need to know this is what I think and that any encouragement on your part, intentional or not...." Agnes doesn't quite know how to finish. "Or maybe I am being a controlling wife. Being a watchdog exactly like I don't want to." She starts to lean back and away from him, but he catches her by her wrists, careful of her sunburn, and pulls her forward toward him again.

"I will do everything you say," he whispers. "And whatever else you want. Not because you're controlling me or making me do anything, not even because you asked me. But because I want to prove that I'm worthy of your trust again. I will guard myself because I belong to you, and nobody else." Then he grasps her chin and brings her lips to his, murmuring "I love you" several times as he kisses her, over and over, and "my Aggie. I'm yours, you're mine."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends enter the picture, and a fuse is lit...

10.

"Why the fuck didn't you call me sooner!" Angie rails at her the next day, after a very enthusiastic hugging session that was quickly cut off when Agnes's sunburn objects to the harsh treatment. 

The actress, still in her prime, as she was ten years Agnes' junior, has finally arrived on Agnes' doorstep. She was in Australia, of all places, staring opposite Tom's former co-star Chris Hemsworth in a very secret project, for six weeks, and only now has she returned to her home in L.A., to find her best friend's marriage in an uproar.

"I knew you were on the no-contact list!" Agnes defends herself, rubbing on more aloe to compensate for Angie's fervent hugs. "Besides, we were keeping it quiet until the scandal broke a few weeks ago."

"But still, Aggs, you should have called me. You should have left me a message or something, my voice mail still worked!" She grumbles. "Chris would have killed him. Tom's probably going to get an angry call as it is."

"Yeah, well, Tom's gotten a lot of those." She knew because he told her. He told her each and every one of them -- his mother, both sisters, and most of his Marvel co-stars. Even Scarlett, who Agnes had never really liked (mostly for political reasons) had mildly chewed him out. "I just hope Evans doesn't join the ranks. We're supposed to have dinner with him later this week and I know Tom isn't looking forward to it because of that."

"Evans is in town?" Angie asks with an arched eyebrow. 

"Movie premiere. Tom thinks we should go, show a united front. Throw the whole thing in the tabloid's faces."

"Maybe he's right." Angie shakes her head. "Although to be honest I really don't want to see your husband. I waited until I knew he'd be at work. I'm afraid I'd say something and I don't want to get in the middle of it. So don't be pissed at me if we don't all get together for dinner or whatever. Now you -- hell, you can come move back in with me if you want, just let me know."

Agnes laughs, shakes her head. "No, sweetie. I know you're on my side and I love you for it, but Tom...let's just say we're reconciling. It's not a done deal by any stretch, but maybe...maybe..." She shrugs. "Maybe we'll get closer because of this."

"Ah, there's that naive streak in you that I love so much," Angie says, hugging Agnes lightly again. "Come on, I'm starving, let's go get lunch."

Agnes is no stranger to being best friends with a celebrity. Thankfully, she and Angie had many similar views about many things --- one of the reasons they became friends so quickly. Angie had been working as a personal trainer in L.A., had some celebrity clients which led to her doing some stunt work, as she was classically trained in staged fighting but hadn't managed to break into the business. Once she was on a set, her good looks convinced some directors she would be better used in front of a camera, and soon enough she landed a lead role in the first book of Agnes' that went to film. The two had a long lunch where Angie was supposed to be picking Agnes' brains about the character, which turned into a five hour talk-fest, and by the end they were best friends. 

Being with Angie made a lot of the world go away. The times they got to spend together were precious nowadays, with Angie being engaged and Agnes married and living in another country, but at least a few times a year they managed to rehash old times, outside of the random international phone calls. 

"If you punch Tom with that ring," Agnes remarks, observing the huge diamond stone, "you might kill him. So please don't."

Angie flaps her hand away. "I wouldn't punch him. Maybe shove him down a flight of stairs. 'Accidentally,'" she says with air quotes. "But I wouldn't risk hurting this baby. Although I told Nicolas it was too flashy but he says it reflects his 'feelings.'" Air quotes again.

"Watch it, you're getting into a bad habit there," Agnes teases. 

"Which part, the air quotes or talking about Nick's feelings?"

"What about your feelings?"

Angie shrugs. "You know how Hollywood marriages are. I just hesitate. I know I said yes but we haven't started planning yet, haven't even set a date."

Agnes feels the urge to tell Angie all the typical things, about how if she loves Nick, then she shouldn't hesitate. But Agnes knows better from her own personal experience. It takes more than emotion to hold together a marriage.

"Have you two talked about it?" Agnes asks softly. 

Angie looks away. "Not yet, he's out of town. When he comes back, first thing." She rolls the ring nervously. "He's going to be mad."

"Better mad once than miserable for the rest of your lives," Agnes says.

"New subject!" Angie announces. "If you're going to that premiere, you need a dress. We have a few hours of shopping left before dinner...I'm going to help you find one."

Agnes tries to object but this is an ages old argument, and she never wins. It was impossible to get Agnes to go to her own premieres, and Angie was the only one with any success record, outside of Tom -- and for Tom, she only went when she absolutely had to. 

They two women shop for the rest of the afternoon. Agnes hates everything but Angie is relentless and eventually gets Agnes to buy not one but two dresses -- one for the premiere, and the other for something much more dressy. The one for the premiere is a soft rose pink, made of silk, and falls just past her knees. It covers her sunburn with a pattern of lace over her shoulders and arms, but also (according to Angie) flatters her hips and breasts, giving her the appearance of an hour glass figure. 

The fancy one is a flowing number of ice blue and dark purple, with a wide collar, and it hangs loosely enough that Agnes almost likes it. 

"Pink, purple and blue," Angie teases at dinner. "It's official. You're twelve."

Agnes' phone rings. It's Tom. He's finished for the day and wants to know where she is, as she's usually in their hotel room. Agnes isn't quite sure exactly where Angie has taken her, but she knows that it's a moot point, as Angie does not want Tom to join them. So she excuses herself to talk to Tom privately.

"Can I join you two?" Tom asks, exactly as Agnes thought he would.

"Uh...no sweetie. I'm sorry but Angie...she just wants it to be the two of us."

Silence on the other end. "She hates me, doesn't she?"

After the many hours of talking that Agnes did earlier, she knows that Angie isn't entirely in the I-Hate-Tom ballpark, but knows how awkward everything would turn if he showed up. "No, of course not. But Angie and I go way back and you know how she is."

Tom sighs. "Will you be home soon?"

"As soon as we get the check, I'll head back."

Of course Angie understands. They were together the entire day, so when Agnes comes through the hotel door with all her packages, Tom is understandably curious.

"Oh, she made me buy some dresses," Agnes grumbles.

"Can I see?"

"I don't feel like playing model right now, dear," she sighs. "I want a shower. And I think I'm starting to peel." She scratches lightly at the formerly-bright-red patch on her shoulder and some of the skin comes away easily. "Gross."

"I have tomorrow off," Tom says, following her into the bathroom. "I was hoping we could all do something together, like old times...but..."

Without thinking, Agnes starts to remove her clothes. She examines the peeling patches of skin, relieved that at least the heat no longer radiating from her limbs. "I'm not sure what Angie's doing, we didn't talk." She smiles at him, realizing she's being dismissive. "But if you want to do something...what?"

The way Tom is looking at her leaves no room for questions but it's instinctive to ask anyway. Although Tom spends their shared shower gently using the loofa to remove her peeling skin, it's the rubbing of the lotion later that leads to more intimate things. It's not a big surprise when they wind up sleeping in really late the next morning. 

"So why are you off today?" Agnes asks as they cuddle in the late morning sun. Tom idly pulls at a loose patch on her upper arm before replying.

"Rescheduling, mostly. They need time to break down the set and move to the next one, as well. I'm off the next three days, so I won't be falling asleep in my soup when we have dinner with Chris on Thursday."

"We need to see if we can get an appointment with Dr. Summers," Agnes says. "Now that you have time."

Tom lets out a little groan. "Do we?"

Agnes raises her head. "Yes," she says, with a touch of force.

Tom looks up at her, his eyes going into puppy mode. "I just...I thought we were doing really well," he says. "I mean, we're rebuilding trust, and we're communicating...and I just want to enjoy some time with you, I don't want to fight."

"We don't fight every time we talk to Dr. Summers," Agnes points out. "And just because we're doing well doesn't mean we stop working on it." She scowls, withdrawing a bit from him. "Tom, I'm serious."

He sighs. "I know." He reaches out, pulling her back to him. "I know, you're right. I just...I'm sorry, you're right. We'll call her. I promise."

Mollified, Agnes settles herself back into his embrace again. "You were back early last night," she murmurs against his shoulder.

"I was back earlier than that. A bunch of the crew went out drinking and I had a few before I realized you might want to join us, but your phone kept going to voice mail. I didn't leave a message," he amends when she gives him a look. "So then I came back and you still weren't here and I called."

"So who went?" Agnes asks.

Tom gives her a look this time. "Regina was there," he tells her plainly, "but I wasn't alone with her, as I promised. We were all talking as a group, no one on one."

"And yet you were all randy last night..." Agnes trails off, her brow darkening just a bit.

"I'm always randy, I just wait for you to be, too," Tom chuckles. "Now that the worst with your sunburn has passed I can touch you again."

Agnes scowls at him. But then she forces herself to push it aside. She is not going to be paranoid. Tom has promised her. And he had tried to call her. That counts for a lot. "Funny, though," she wonders out loud. "I didn't even see any missed calls from you."

"Well that doesn't mean anything. Phones fuck up all the time," Tom murmurs sleepily. "Hell, maybe we should get up or I'll wind up sleeping all day."

"Sleep," Agnes says, pulling the sheets up higher, ignoring the twinges in her stomach, where she carries all her anxiety. Of course her phone would do that, it's not the first time. It's nothing. "You've been burning the candle at both ends. You can sleep a bit more."

"Okay, but when I get up I want to see those dresses."

\--------------

When they meet at the restaurant on Thursday, Agnes is surprised to see that Chris has a date -- and not just a date, but apparently a serious girlfriend.

Of course, she is not as surprised as Tom.

"Diana?" he says, stumbling slightly upon seeing her. His shock lasts a little too long, and just as Agnes starts to wonder, she suddenly remembers.

Four years ago, Tom had worked on a play in London, another of his Shakespearean endeavors that had a short run but a high level of success. Diana was the director. They had worked together for several weeks before the play, but even though they had wanted to extend the run, Diana had said no.

Agnes only met her once. She came in during rehearsals to watch, and Tom had called it early that day, claiming he wanted to spend more time with her, as he had been so involved with the play that month. Diana hadn't been entirely pleased, but Tom had seemed to want to keep Agnes and Diana away from each other.

"Hello, Tom," the woman says. Brunette, her hair a mass of curls and kept trim around her shoulders, slender and pale and very British, just like him. 

Awkwardly, Tom goes to embrace her. And all of Agnes' warning flares go off. 

Chris and Diana had been together nearly a year. He had come to London and done some stage work with her, and they had clicked. Now she was in the States with him, and the two seemed to be working on the next level of their relationship. 

"I hope this is okay," Chris whispers to her as they find their seats. Tom and Diana are exchanging awkward smiles and seem to be faltering in their attempts at small talk until Chris brings up the theater and reminiscing is the main item served at the table that night.

Agnes lapses into funk. She finds herself getting oversensitive and feels left out of the conversation. Rationally she knows this isn't true, but the fact that Tom and Diana seem to have some kind of connection irritates her jealousy to nearly unbearable levels. At one point she actually considers getting up and leaving the restaurant, taking a taxi back to the hotel. 

Rationally, she knows she can't do this. She refuses to call attention to it and yet desperately wishes that Tom would notice how miserable she suddenly is. She likes Chris, but with everything that's happened lately, she very much wishes they could find a way out of attending his premiere the next night. 

When it's time to go, the goodbyes are just as awkward as the greetings. Chris seems to be attempting to blow it over with generous hugs to both Tom and Agnes, making sure they're coming to his premiere. Not once in the evening has Chris asked anything about the affair, the scandal, any of it, but as he lets go of Agnes, he lets one arm linger around her shoulders as he makes a grab for Tom's hand. He seems to be shoving the two of them together, as if posing for a picture. "It'll be good for you," he says to them, with a wink.

Agnes sulks in the corner of the car. Tom doesn't seem to notice. He stares out the window and keeps cracking his thumbs, alternating one and the other, something Agnes usually finds cute but at the moment she wants to scream at him to stop. He is keeping something from her. The jealousy eats her alive. 

This had happened once to them early in their relationship. During one of Tom's various visits to Los Angeles, an old girlfriend surprised them at dinner and Tom was distracted by the intrusion. However, he had been warm, friendly, and a bit too familiar with the young actress that Agnes recognized from some obscure movie. 

The evening was utterly ruined. Agnes fell silent for the rest of the date, giving one word answers in spite of Tom's attempts to revive their conversation, which to her felt half-hearted. When leaving the restaurant, she would not let him hold her hand, shoving them into the pockets of her coat instead. He returned her to Angie's house, asked if he could come in for a minute, and she said she was too tired. 

"What's wrong?" he asked. But she couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell him she was jealous. She couldn't admit it because she worried equally that she was being childish and stupid, and that she was right to be jealous. Neither option was a happy one. And no amount of reassurance from Tom was going to wipe away the look in his eyes when he'd set them on his ex-girlfriend. 

"Goodnight, Tom," Agnes said, leaving the car. Tom chased her to the door, attempting to draw her into his arms but she shook him off. He managed to get one hand on her shoulder to keep her from running away. Agnes could say what she liked but Tom knew that face, that heavy-lidded sorrow that hung over her like a cloud. 

"Please talk to me," he begged. "Tell me. Was it Charlene? Did she upset you? I didn't see her do anything, but --"

Agnes went for her key. "I don't want to talk about it, Tom. Thank you for dinner."

But Tom was not to be dismissed. He pushed the door shut over her head and refused to let her go inside. "Agnes," he said, his voice taking on a steely quality that she would encounter from time to time in their relationship, "look at me."

She did. He got both hands on her shoulders, felt how tensed she was against him.

"Charlene and I were a long time ago," he said. "Whatever you saw that upset you, I promise you, I'm with you. I am in love with you. My heart doesn't belong to anyone else, certainly not her."

Agnes could only shake her head. This was what jealousy did to her. For some women it made them rage and fight, others made it turn on their charms to make sure their men didn't want to leave them. For Agnes, it just made her depressed. It made her want to slink off into a corner, curl into a ball and die. 

This was a hard lesson that Tom had to learn about her. Over the years he had been more watchful for it, quick to stifle even the slightest hint of it. But tonight, he is oblivious.

Agnes pretends to be asleep when Tom gets out of the shower. He slides closer to her, but the king size bed is large and she waits for a few minutes for him to settle before she scoots farther away. That heavy, sinking feeling follows her into her sleep.

That night, when she dreams about the wall, it's enclosed her, like the tower from a castle. She's not building it -- she's huddled at the base of it, crying herself blue.

The next morning, she reminds Tom that he hasn't called Dr. Summers yet. This is met with failure -- the good doctor is booked solid for the next two days. She offers a date where Tom says he should have a late morning, and they have to schedule it for next week.

That night, when they are at the premiere, Tom takes too long to return to his seat. He excused himself, saying he was going to speak to a friend he missed, but the movie is about to start and Agnes knows that sometimes he loses track of himself, so she goes to find him. She winds up overhearing a conversation in the hallway outside one of the VIP lounges where the celebrities are munching hors d'oeuvres and sipping expensive wine as they mingle after posing for pictures on the red carpet -- an event she distinctly avoids. 

"Does he know?" That's Tom.

"He knows about my significant relationships. I never thought to bring you up. I honestly didn't think it would be a problem."

"Well, you should tell him."

"Why, does your wife know?"

"Know what? Nothing happened."

"Tom, you need to make up your damn mind!"

She wants to turn the corner, see how Tom will react to her sudden appearance. Instead she goes back to her seat and keeps silent, wondering if he's going to tell her, if he's going to keep his promise about his honesty.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the bomb goes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SORRY!!! I FORGOT!

11.

She can hardly pay any attention to the movie. She is in a distracted fog all the way back to their hotel room, even though Tom attempts several times to engage her in conversation, and tells her multiple times how beautiful she looks in her pink dress. He even attempts to get a bit amorous with her when she wants to take a shower and steam off the make-up and hair product, but she puts him off and spends too long in the bathroom, finally emerging to find him sitting on the bed, on her side, staring out the window at the city.

"Tom," Agnes says, suddenly wishing she had a robe to put over the pajama pants and T-shirt she usually sleeps in. "Are you going to tell me about Diana?"

Tom looks up at her, surprised. "What about her?"

Agnes just stares at him, expectant. Tom stares back, at first puzzled, but then, slowly, the awkwardness from earlier returns. "We worked together, you know that," he says. "It was just weird, I didn't expect her to be with Chris."

The frown on his face as he says that...is it jealousy? The thought makes the acid in her stomach churn. 

"What happened between you?"

Tom looks down at his hands. A long pause comes before he says, slowly, "She...she and I got close during that production."

Close. There are so many ways to be close. Tom has so many close friends it's a bit ad nauseum, and his work friends and the people he bonds with seem to continue to be special to him long after everyone has moved on. This does not alarm her. What does alarm her is the fact that he won't look at her.

"I'm waiting," she whispers. 

He shifts. "She...developed feelings for me. She never said as much out loud but I knew... it was just a feeling I got."

Agnes waits. When nothing more comes after another several moments, she ventures, "Well, it's not your responsibility. And she's obviously over it, she's with Chris. So what is it?"

Finally, he looks up at her. There is guilt there. "I'd...I sort of...had some feelings for her back."

Ah. There it is. At first, Agnes takes it calmly. Her brain struggles to piece together the other events in that timeline -- three years ago, when Tom was working on that play. Two months before, she had turned forty-two. She had had a period that lasted eighteen days. Finally going to the doctor to get it shut off had led to further examinations. The result was that she may have miscarried -- the gynecologist drew a logical conclusion based on the fact that Agnes was sexually active and not on birth control. Plus, at her age she very well could be para-menopausal, the doctor went on. Now that she was in her early forties, the possibility for children was no longer on the horizon. 

This news had devastated her. She'd spent the entire next day in bed, crying. Tom's attempt to comfort her had resulted in words....

Agnes forces herself to remember them. They still sting, the way they'd made that look appear on his face. He had hardly spoken to her for two days after, he was so hurt.

//I'm just scared, Tom. I'm scared that this is a sign that we should never have gotten married. I'm scared that this is some kind of punishment for going with my feelings instead of listening to reason. I'm just scared it's a sign that all of this was a mistake.//

A Mistake. Agnes remembers Tom in Dr. Summer's office, his tears when he told her he dies a little inside when she says that. She knew that. She knew it when she said it again but it seemed to be the only way to make him see. 

For Tom, the thought that she believed their marriage was a mistake...she could see the heartbroken expression burned into her brain. But Tom hadn't let it drag them down. He hadn't let the tension get to them. He'd bounced back, that was what Tom did. Tom always bounced back, from roles he didn't get, from bad reviews, from insults slung at him casually because he was a public figure. 

But he had developed feelings. For Diana. Apparently he hadn't bounced back as well as she'd thought -- instead, he'd redirected.

"Were you in love with her?" Agnes asks softly. 

Tom doesn't answer. It's enough. 

It's more than enough. It's too much. This new knowledge spins everything that happened since into a different perspective -- how long has it been since Tom has been slowly drifting away from her? His emotions, his ego, his body...they were all up for grabs to anyone who turned his head.

Damn him. 

She turns away. Tom is immediately on his feet. "But I didn't do anything about it!" he cries. "I didn't...I didn't do anything unfaithful to you in any way! I stayed with you!"

"Oh, yes, old faithful you are," she bites out as she goes to the drawers and starts to slide them open, finding her various pieces of clothing and folding them together. 

"Agnes, you are my wife! It was a temptation. I knew it was wrong, I walked away from it! I stayed with you and I don't regret it, not for one moment. Not one!"

She gives him a scathing look over her shoulder. "How noble of you. You told me before that you were never tempted, Tom, remember? You lied to me. You lied to me! You looked me in the face and you lied! How the fuck can I believe anything you say?" She turns away, unable to stand looking at him a second longer.

"What are you doing?" he demands, coming up and standing at her shoulder.

"Packing," she states. "I'm done."

This news is the cold water they both need. She tucks the clothes into her arm and slams the drawer shut before going to the next.

"Agnes, please, we can talk--"

"Oh yes, we can talk. That's all we've done. Live our lives like normal, go to therapy when it's convenient. It isn't working, is it? No, Tom. I'm done talking."

He grabs at the clothes in her arm and shoves them into the drawer, slamming it shut. "No. No, you aren't leaving. You can't be mad at me for something I didn't even do! I can't help my feelings, none of us can, but we can do the right thing and I did the right thing!"

"And never told me about it." She turns and walks away from him, going to the suitcases that are stored in the closet. That is what upsets her most. He didn't tell her. What does that say about them? What does that mean?

"What was I supposed to tell you? 'Honey, I'm sorry, but I fell in love with my director on this play. Don't worry, I won't do anything about it, I'm going to stay with you!' Please! You would have freaked out, just like you're doing now! God, Agnes, sometimes you are so fucking fragile!"

She whirls on him, the fierce look on her face enough to pull him up short. "It would have been better to tell me then than now. And that is the last thing I have to say to you." She turns, yanking jeans out of the closet and pulling them on over her pajama pants. She doesn't bother with another shirt. She grabs up her purse and heads for the door. 

Tom is in her path in a flash. At first he just blocks her but when she ducks around him he gets her around the waist and his arms tighten around her like cord. 

"No," he says, his voice half way because a desperate sob and an angry snarl. "You're not leaving. You're my wife. You're not leaving me."

Agnes bucks in his arms. She is of considerable weight, and the motion causes them to spin, and then Tom hits the door and slides down against it. He winds up on his backside with her between his legs. This temporarily stuns her into stillness, but then she is at it again, struggling to break free. Her purse has fallen in the middle of the floor, her wallet, keys, phone scattered across the carpet. Their feet wind up kicking at these items and sending them farther sprawling. Tom gets his long legs to wind over hers and still her kicking motion, while his hands go to her wrists and yank tight.

"Stop it!" he howls. "Stop it, Agnes! I'm stronger than you and I'm not letting go!"

As if obeying, Agnes stills. Yes, Tom is stronger than her. The fact that he is using physical force on her is worrying enough, but right now she has to think her way around this and it requires more calm that she currently has. 

Tom, wisely enough, does not let her go. He continues his hold, as if he knows what she's going to do. He doesn't clasp so tight, but she still can't get up, and any wiggle she makes is instantly met with him clamping down. 

How long this continues, she isn't sure. Surely they have to have made enough of a disturbance to upset one of their neighbors and there will be a call from the front desk or someone from security to check on them, or (more likely) ask them to keep it down. But nothing comes. Agnes sits and breathes and tries to calm her screaming mind, the broken pieces of her heart, and her overpowered limbs which are currently trembling with overexertion.

Tom speaks periodically. He tells her he loves her. He tells her he will never leave her. He tells her he will remain faithful to her. He tells her he's a horrible ass but he didn't do anything wrong with Diana, that it was his problem and he dealt with it. But Agnes knows her husband. She knows how passionate he is about things and how those feelings had to rush at him, and how he had to be so conflicted on those nights when he went home to her, to Agnes, who never really understood Shakespeare that well, always had a hard time with the phrasing, compared to Diana, who had to have lit a spark in him to make him feel that way. 

No, that's not why, her little voice of reasons says. He fell in love with her because you broke his heart. You told him your marriage was a mistake. He was vulnerable and she was there -- a woman who wouldn't throw three years of marriage in his face as if it was nothing. A new possibility for a better outcome. 

It's her worst fear. It is worse, she realizes, than him just having sex with someone else. She always knew that he would have been better off with someone else, that the two of them were, ultimately, incompatible. It didn't matter how much they felt for each other, love was a choice in the end. And her fear that it was the wrong choice after she'd spent so many years being single, thinking that was meant to be her lot in life, and not being terribly unhappy about it...what happiness has this brought her? Was it worth it, the good against the bad?

So she doesn't say anything, no matter what Tom says to her. No matter what questions he asks her. No matter if he attempts to caress her and turn his stranglehold into something more tender. She resists, forcing him back to a wrestler's hold every time.

"Aggie," he tries one last time, and she can hear the tears in his voice, even with her back to him. "Aggie, please, say something. Say anything. Rail at me if you have to...but please."

"I have to pee," she says, deadpan.

Tom lets out his breath. "Old trick," he says, his voice unsteady.

"Find out in a few minutes when we're both sitting in my urine," she sighs, as if it's a normal conversation.

Slowly, with great reluctance, Tom lets her go. She stands up, scoops up her phone and goes into the bathroom. Tom lets out an, "Oi!" when she grabs the device, but she has a few feet ahead of him and speeds up, slamming the bathroom door behind her and locking it.

It's been how many months since that awful night in their bedroom, and it's happening again? She sits on the floor by the tub and texts Angie, praying to God the woman will get it. She has to do now what she didn't do before. It's the only way. It's all she can live with.

Come get me. Please.

The return text comes about five minutes later. What happened? Where are you?

At my hotel. Can't explain yet. Please come to the room and get me.

The door is going to rattle off its hinges and Tom is going to wind up paying the hotel for damages if he keeps up his tirade, Agnes observes lightly as she settles in and waits. She turns on the water, the cold water, and lets it run, and even though it doesn't drown Tom out, it does sooth her a bit and she is able to lie down on the tiles, using the stack of towels for a pillow, and relax. 

She has always been a strange person, in her own estimation. Her one kink for enjoying bathroom floors -- clean ones -- works in her favor for this moment, but it does bite her in the ass when she starts thinking about how Tom used to take advantage of her penchant, buying particularly fluffy bath rugs and whatnot to enhance their experiences when she was in the mood. She pushes all this out as she waits for a rescue.

What surprises her the most, later, is the lack of tears. Before she'd been a howling mess and Tom had taken it all as his just due. But now, she's very calm, and Tom is going nuts on the other side of the door, ranting at her up down and sideways, although she's not hearing a single word of it over the white noise of the tub faucet.

A half hour later, Angie arrives. She pounds on the door to their hotel room, and Tom apparently lets her in, because within a few minutes and some raised voices later, Angie is knocking on the bathroom door.

"Come on, Aggs," Angie says, her voice strained. By now, Agnes has turned off the water. "Let's go."

Agnes emerges from the bathroom, and Angie winds up acting as body guard, as Agnes has her toiletries in her bag from the bathroom, and she calmly puts her clothes into her suitcase, while Angie keeps Tom at bay. 

"Agnes, please don't leave," he begs, sounding utterly pathetic now, knowing he has no hope, but unable to just stand there and let her leave.

"She will call you when she has calmed down, Tom," Angie says, still sounding so tense. "I promise."

Tom does not take this well. His face is red and blotchy and his eyes are swollen from his tears, and he paces the room, wringing his hands and running his fingers through his hair so often his curls are a catastrophe. When Agnes finishes and turns toward the door, he almost looks like he's going to block it again. He glares at Angie, who keeps her eyes on Agnes, only knowing she's rescuing a friend from where she doesn't want to be. 

"Please don't," he begs. It might potentially be the most desperate she's even seen him in their collective lives.

The words, you're better off without me, run through Agnes' head and she almost says them. But instead she says nothing and goes through the door.

\---------------

Angela gets Agnes into a fresh pair of pajamas and a bed. She sits beside her on the other side, waiting in case Agnes wants to talk. But Agnes falls asleep pretty quickly. She does not dream of any wall that night. It's the first time since the dreams began.

The next morning, Agnes comes downstairs to the brightly lit kitchen she and Angie used to love to cook in when they lived here together. Agnes was in between apartments and Angie offered to let her come stay, and then didn't want her to leave. They'd been good roommates, knowing when to give each other space, but having fun like best friends. 

Agnes finds cold, caffeinated soda in the fridge and pops herself open a can, pours it into a coffee mug and drinks slowly. Angela is already awake, as she does her exercise routine in the morning, and suggests they go sit at the table outside. The sliding door in the kitchen opens to where the large backyard contains various patio furniture, particularly the table with the stuffed chairs and glass table, and the large umbrella to keep off the direct rays of the sun. The morning is already sunny and warm, and they relax in silence for several minutes before Angie says;

"Okay, I need a bit more than what you told me last night. What happened?"

Agnes starts to explain. Angela listens quietly, a slight frown on her face as she absorbs the details. She winces when Agnes comes to the part about Tom being in love with someone else.

"So is he still in love with her?"

Agnes shrugs. "He was kinda shaken up by seeing her again. And you know how those feelings are."

"Feelings are fickle, as you always like to say," Angie points out. "And it's true. So if he made the right choice and stayed with you..."

Agnes lets out a deep sigh. "You don't see?" She scoots forward on the edge of her chair, leaning toward Angie to emphasize her points. "He never told me about that. I mean, he was married to me, you know what he went through, what we both went through to make sure it was the right decision to be together, that it would work between us." Angie swallows down the words about it being a mistake, about how she thinks that maybe if Tom had just come clean and told her three or four years ago, they could have been through this mess already and on with their lives -- him with a woman who was better suited to his needs, and her alone, where she belonged. "And then what happens? First time his head gets turned his heart goes falling out of his chest? But did he tell me?"

"What was he supposed to tell you, Aggs?" Angie asks, earning her a scowl. "I mean, that's not the sort of thing you tell your wife..."

Agnes just crosses her arms. "What does it say, that he does that, and then a few years down the line, he winds up having an affair? I mean, can't you see? It's a pattern. First his heart, and then his body. He's...he's an inconsistent wreck! And what does this say about his feelings for me?"

"It says that he understands what you were trying to tell him, and he chose his marriage to you over a flight of fancy that probably passed. You can't help what you feel, Agnes. Only what you do about it."

Agnes growls low in her throat. She'd said those words and how she was having to eat them. But none of them understand. Tom is going to keep doing this. Tom is going to keep hurting her. This is not working. His inconsistent heart strays from her and as much as he whines that he loves her, she just doesn't...believe him anymore.

"Look, I'm not taking his side," Angie says softly. "The affair would have been justification enough for you to walk out on him, but you said things were good between you. I just don't think he's going to understand why something that happened three or four years ago is enough to wreck things now."

Agnes falls silent. Not because she agrees with Angie, but because the throbbing wound of knowing her husband loved someone else, and then later had an affair, is just so obvious to her she can't think of a more plain way to explain it. 

"He's faithless," she tries again, but in a low, muttered voice. "I just can't deal with his words saying one thing and his actions being completely contrary. It's going to happen again, I know it is. It's probably destined to happen now -- he's going to do something with that tart playing his love interest in the new movie, and blame me for it. But the thought of sucking up to him just to keep him makes me sick. I don't want to compete for him. He doesn't have to compete for me -- I've always been his."

Angie lets out a low chuckle. "You made him compete before you'd even agree to date him," she points out. 

"Which is the worst part of all this," Agnes sighs. "I thought it was a done deal. I thought I'd...I don't know, I just hate having to fight for what should already be mine."

"Oh sweetie," Angie says, reaching over to squeeze Agnes' arm, but she shies away.

"I know, I'm horrible and selfish, whatever," Agnes grumbles.

"No, you aren't. You feel like he just isn't yours anymore. It's always been hard on you, with his fame, and his admirers. But your insecurity is off the charts right now no matter what he says or does --"

"Because his actions are louder!"

"And maybe some time apart is best. Make him realize what he stands to lose. And you as well."

"I don't want to go back to London," Agnes says. "I don't want to go to that house where our life was. It's just going to make things worse. Can I stay here?"

"As long as you want. A month, two, it's fine, you're always welcome here."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom finally confronts Agnes. Agnes seeks advice from Dr. Summers.

The days without Tom are numb and blank. 

At first, the stream of calls and texts from Tom is like a flooded river. Agnes can hardly go near her phone without Tom's face smiling that million-watt smile at her. She hits ignore, she hangs up, she lets it go to voice mail. She doesn't listen to his messages, only long enough to delete them. She can't do much about the texts unless she wants to delete entire conversations, but she just lets them go, unread. She sends only one reply on the first day:

At Angie's. Going to stay for a while. Am safe. Please stop calling.

It doesn't stop him but it does slow him down a little. By the end of the week he is calling periodically at different times of the day, five times at the least. The texts trickle down -- honestly, he just keeps repeating himself.

Please call me. Please talk to me. Please come back to me.

I love you. I miss you. I can't live without you.

He doesn't realize, apparently, that his protestations only make her anger at him more bitter. 

I love you. Goodnight.

And he holds to the tradition. At around eleven every night, she gets the same message. She does not return it. But the text triggers the dream about the wall again. Over and over, the wall at different heights, Tom's face behind it, her hands building it, sometimes she's active and sometimes she watching herself from a distance. 

A week passes before she calls him. She braces herself for it, not really expecting to be able to talk. 

"Aggie?" he answers the phone with a ridiculous amount of hope.

"Yes, Tom."

"My God, darling..." he sighs. "I'm just..." He trails off, doesn't finish his thought. 

"You still there?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. You called me for a reason, I'm sure. Please talk to me."

"I'm going to stay at Angie's for a while. I don't know how long."

"Can I come over?"

"No. I need time."

"How much?"

Agnes sighs deeply. "Dammit, Tom..."

"No, no, I'm..." He's going to apologize again and she thinks she might scream if he does. "I know, you need space. I know you hate it when I press and that's not going to help you realize how much I want you back again. But...Agnes...please...you have to realize...I didn't do anything. I didn't! I did the right thing by you and I'm sorry I didn't tell you but I knew it would only upset you and since no harm was done I moved past it!"

For several moments, Agnes doesn't speak. 

"Are you still there?"

"Tom," Agnes says, very slowly, "I want you to hear me out."

"I'm listening."

"What if it had been me? What if I had been unfaithful you? What if I had fallen in love with someone else while I was committed to you and tempted to leave you? What would you say, or do?"

Tom doesn't speak for a long time, absorbing this. "I don't know," he finally whispers.

"And what if it was both? What if I hid one of them from you?"

"If you didn't do anything about your feelings, Agnes, and you had chosen me, I would understand that you loved me and were faithful to me--"

"But you weren't!" Agnes snaps. "You cheated!"

"But not with her!"

"It doesn't fucking matter! First your feelings stray, then your body. How can I trust you? How can I believe anything you say or do? When I'll always be wondering where your heart has strayed off, who you've been flirting with, how far will it go?"

And then suddenly Tom is angry. "I have bent over backwards to pay my penance for what I did, Agnes. And I will continue to do so! But I did not ever stop loving you, I stayed with you! I chose you! And if you can't choose me back then what the hell else do we have to say to each other?"

"Nothing!" she growls, and then hangs up the phone.

They don't talk for another week. Agnes is so angry she takes out her anger hitting things in Angela's weight room. After the first day she is aching and tired and sleeps too much. She sits and eats too much the rest of the week, a wreck of a person until Tom calls her exactly one week later, in the mid-morning, while she is watching crappy daytime television about the lives of people more pathetic than her.

She stares at her phone while it rings. Tom has made no other attempt to contact her that week, no texts, no messages, nothing. She doesn't want to answer -- she dreads answering. But it would be unfair. It's been a week, she regrets hanging up on him, she doesn't like feeling that regret but it's very real. 

So she says, "Hello?"

"Agnes. How are you?"

So formal. "Horrible. You?"

"The same." He sighs, already with the dramatics. "I can't stop thinking about what you said. About what if it had been you."

"And?"

"And I probably would have killed the man you slept with. But I think it's because the thought of you doing that just seemed so outrageous. I mean, I just don't see you as capable of that kind of thing."

"Must be nice. Being able to trust someone."

"I deserved that. I understand. I understand why you're so angry. You are so unsure of me, and it's unfair for you. I get that."

Silence descends. 

"I want you to know," he says after a minute, "that I told them I wouldn't do the love scene. I requested a body double. Regina wasn't happy about it, ranted about being a professional, but I flat out refused. They've even had to mess with the camera angles because I won't kiss her directly on the lips. I keep going for the corner of her mouth or somewhere like that. I don't think I'll be working with any of them again, at least no time soon. And I haven't taken on any other jobs until further notice. Not until this is settled between us."

"You might be out of work for a long time," Agnes says in a muted tone.

"Whatever. I don't care. I know you think I'm a faithless cad, but I'm going to prove to you that I'm not. If I have to wait you out, I will -- I did it once, I can do it again. Miserable as it will make both of us." Another pause. "Agnes, can I see you?"

She hasn't laid eyes on Tom in two weeks. The unrelenting ache of missing him screams yes at the chance, but the pain is too heavy. It fights back. "I don't know, Tom."

"We can have lunch. Somewhere public."

"Why, so we'll be seen and push back the rumors that we're breaking up? I'm sure it's all over the gossip circuit."

Tom sighs. Again. "No, so that we won't make a scene. That we'll both be forced to behave."

The way he says "behave" suddenly makes Agnes feel like a shit. Tom has been calm and cordial. She's been a bitchy mess. 

"I'll think about it and call you tomorrow," she replies. 

\-----------

In the end, she agrees to meet him at a restaurant that they both liked, at one point. The servers knew Tom and respected him, so they gave him a private table, and made sure he wasn't disturbed by any approaching fans. 

It's hard to greet her husband -- Agnes looks at him and thinks she should do something, touch him in some way, but she can't even smile at him. Tom, ever the actor, smiles pleasantly at their server, orders her a ginger ale, himself a Jameson on the rocks, and lets the young man know they will need a few minutes before placing an order.

Agnes' stomach is in such a knot she can't begin to imagine eating. But the ginger ale sounds lovely. 

"So how long is this going to go on?" Tom asks, his tone conversational, hands folded neatly on top of the menu. Apparently he doesn't want to eat, either. 

Agnes looks away, gazes absently at the people closest to them, a couple having a very normal dinner. "I don't know."

Tom nods his head slowly. "I've been talking to Dr. Summers," he says. "I even called Fr. Greene. Both of them would like to talk to you. They're concerned. Dr. Summers suggested a Skype session. I wasn't sure what you would say, so I said I'd mention it."

"I suppose that makes sense," Agnes says. She fiddles with her menu, looks absently at the page of appetizers. Bread. Bread sounds rather good at the moment. But she drops the menu, returning her attention to Tom. "What did Fr. Greene say?"

Now that she's really looking at him, she realizes that Tom's demeanor is rather different from what she expected. She expected him to look depressed, like her -- but in actuality he looks rather pissed. "That's between him and me," Tom says tersely. 

"Oh, playing the confessor route?" Suddenly she is in the mood to fight. Even in public. She doesn't care. He wants to be pissed? She will give him a good reason. "You're not even Catholic, you don't get that privilege."

"You, of all people, have no idea of the state of my soul right now," Tom says, his voice deep, low. His blue eyes are so wide and piercing, she feels herself tremble slightly. But she straightens her shoulders.

"I have more idea than most," she spits.

Tom glares for a moment, then shuts his eyes, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. "You know, Agnes," he says, speaking very carefully when he opens his eyes again, "not all of us are like you. Not all of us are gold refined in the fire. Some of us are still pretty damn imperfect. But I'm trying. I've been trying very hard and I don't think you've given me any credit for it."

So many retorts rise up on her, but suddenly she chokes. She can't voice a single one.

He goes on. He leans forward, pinning her in place as he narrows in on her. "You know, I didn't come here to fight with you. I had hoped that maybe we could have a pleasant conversation. Maybe try and be civil to reach other, work something out. But you've dug in your heels. You're always go on about compassion, but you don't have any idea what it is really is, do you?"

"How...how dare you..." she's whispering, her voice strangled. Tears burn her eyes. 

"Then where is your compassion for me, Agnes?" All at once the rage in him turns into sorrow so deep, but somehow he's managed to put himself above her. Like she can't touch him. "I'm not perfect. You knew that when you got me. You aren't perfect either, but true, your weaknesses have never been much in the flesh. Mine are. I admit it. And while I may have screwed up, I have stayed with you. No matter what my temptations or failures, I have taken my vows to you seriously--"

"Your vows to me," she says, her voice a low wail, and she hates herself for it, "did not involve flirting with someone else, fucking someone else, and sure as hell not falling in love with someone else!"

Tom pulls back. He tilts his head back, gazing over the room, eyes moving rapidly as he tries to collect himself. 

"You still have feelings for Diana," she accuses, but her voice is much softer this time.

Tom turns his eyes to her. 

"I heard you," she goes on. "That night at Chris' premiere. You wanted to know if she'd told Chris about you. She wanted to know if you'd told me about her. You said there wasn't anything to tell and she told you to make up your damn mind. So what is it, Tom? Is she something? Because that isn't the reaction of a man who has moved on."

He shifts his jaw in that way that plainly shows his irritation. "It was the reaction of a man remembering a very difficult time," he admits. He cocks his head to one side. "You don't know what I went through. I mean, feeling for her, but being married to you, I was so confused. I wanted to talk to someone about it, and the only person who I wanted was you, but I knew I couldn't. I knew how it would sound. I knew you would be hurt, upset. I knew it would put a wedge between us and make the temptation worse. I knew I didn't want that. So I kept it from you. I couldn't talk to anyone, so instead I just... waited. And then it was over, the run was over, and we went our separate ways. It was a temptation, yes. But I resisted it. I even tried to talk to her once -- Diana. I was going to pour my heart out to her, since I couldn't talk to you, but she cut me off. She said she saw my eyes when I looked at you. That I would never look at her like that. That I would never leave you for her. And I realized she was right, so when the run was over, I left. I know she was hurt, she refused to extend the run even though we'd had offers, amazing offers. But I wanted out. And after it was over, when you and I were together again, a break after you finished one of your books and before I left to do a film, I was so happy, and grateful. Do you remember that?"

Agnes has already been thinking of that time. How she'd been preoccupied with her new novel, barely giving Tom any attention, but how he'd been immersed in the play, so passionate about being on the stage. When it was over they'd made an effort to spend as much time as they could together, catch up on each other's lives -- and admittedly, Agnes thinks, to make up for the horrible thing she'd said that she knew was still hurting him. It had been good -- sweet and romantic and like a second honeymoon. 

"I felt like I'd passed some test, some great trial," Tom exhales. "Some of us, Aggie, are weak." She almost cringes at the use of her nickname. "We're weak and we need help. We need compassion. I know I was unfaithful, for that alone you have the right to leave me. But we were fixing it. We were getting better. I know what I did. I'm paying for it. But you made vows to me, for better or worse. I will never be perfect, my love, but I will love you as much as I am capable. If that's not enough for you..." He trials off, shakes his head, picks up the menu. 

Silence falls upon them. The server returns, and Tom orders a few light appetizers, all things Agnes likes. She picks at the breadsticks they're given, contemplating his words.

She has to make a decision. Choose to trust him, or choose to leave. She can't. She wavers. Either option offers pain. 

When they're finished and Tom is paying the bill, he stands, goes to her and crouches down, taking her hand.

"You need to forgive me, Aggie," he says softly. "Not just for my sake but for yours. I know this is killing you. I know this will do you more damage over time. Don't do that to yourself. Not over me. I'm not worth it. I'll accept whatever decision you come to, regarding our marriage, but you're my wife, and you know you always will be, and I will continue to love you, with you or without you in my life." He lets go, stands, and leaves the restaurant.

\-------------

Over the next two weeks, Tom doesn't call. He doesn't text, he doesn't make any attempt to contact her. He has spoken his peace, said all he wants to say. 

And Agnes feels like the horrible, arrogant bitch that she is. 

The self-loathing battles with the indignation. She calls Fr. Greene and ends up rambling for half an hour. Fr. Greene tries to offer her comfort and advice but Agnes hardly hears it. She tries to call Dr. Summers. It takes three tries, and it is Dr. Summers who has to call her back very early in the morning. The time difference makes it worse.

"How are you doing, Agnes?" Dr. Summers asks.

"Right now I hate myself," Agnes admits. "But I also hate Tom. I'm still so angry at him. He doesn't seem to understand what he did wrong."

"I'm working with him on that," Dr. Summers says, sympathetic. "But he does seem extremely concerned with how you would have taken it. He said that a few weeks before he started working on that play, the two of you had had some kind of conversation, the first time you'd even said your marriage was a mistake."

Of course, Tom would say that. The man had a memory like an elephant. At least when he chose. 

"Yes," she admits.

"There are two ways to consider it," Dr. Summers says. "If that's true, Agnes, and you think your marriage was a mistake, we need to deal with that. However, I am wary about going that direction because you had just had a potential miscarriage. Your hormones were all in flux and there is no way of knowing if you actually meant it. You may have meant it in the moment but that doesn't mean you actually believe it. So have you given it more thought?"

"I'm thinking about so many things," Agnes says, trying not to descend into sobs. "But...yes, I mean...I had a lot of reservations about marrying Tom."

"Then why did you?"

This is a question Agnes struggles with. She wishes she knew. She knows that she loved him so much. But what was the basis of that love? His looks? His charisma? His charm? His kindness? As an actor, she knew he had the ability to manipulate people, and there were times she was afraid he was pretending. Over the months, that had faded. She couldn't believe that kind of sincerity could be faked for so long, at such a level. She also knew it was her own fear of love, her own fear of giving herself to this man who seemed ready to consume her, body and soul. 

"I know it's not a simple answer," Dr. Summers says softly. "It's like asking why you love someone. You just do. But there are reasons. Your head wasn't absent in the decision making process, and from the time I've known you, I've found you to be the kind of person who doesn't do things without good reason. Certainly not life-changing things."

Agnes draws a deep breath. "I lived in Indiana for most of my youth," she begins. "I decided to move to Los Angeles on my own, without any friends or family there, just a job as motivation. I could have decided against it, I could have stayed in Indiana and played it safe, but I didn't. And what pushed me in the end is that I didn't want to spend my life wondering what would have happened if I'd gone."

"So you married Tom because you didn't want to wonder what if you had for the rest of your life?"

"I was so enthralled by him," Agnes sighs. "I still am, most days. Even right now, I feel like he's sitting in the back of my head, all the time. I shut my eyes and I see his face. And he wanted me, which was just...unthinkable to me. But when I fell in love with him, when I realized how much he loved me, I thought it was my chance, my turn to have what I'd never had but seen everyone else have my entire life. It was my turn to have...to have love. You know?"

"I do. Love is powerful."

"And I've always tried to see how God wants me to go, how this path leads me to whatever His plan is for me. I thought, maybe this was it. It wasn't the first time I'd been enlightened like that. But it also wasn't the first time I'd tried to follow the wrong path, either. And I had so many ups and downs with Tom. I mean, because he was famous, it brought a whole series of other things into the picture. Having to deal with being in the public eye, the fact that I was a writer and I was accused by so many people of just wanting extra publicity for my books. My sales skyrocketed and my own publicists were clamoring and pressing for more. Then there were the politics. I was a Traditional Catholic and I'm having to rub shoulders with people I wanted nothing to do with. You think I liked that Scarlett Johansson and Tom were such good friends? She's a great actress and a likeable person but she pushes so many things I'm so against and it caused tension. I didn't want to be the girl who made her boyfriend choose between her and his friends. So I swallowed things down, even though my conscience got to me. And these things felt like signs I was in the wrong place. I was where I wasn't supposed to be. And I was at war with myself..."

She chokes off, nearly sobbing again. Dr. Summers waits patiently for her to continue. "It's okay, Agnes. Did you talk to Tom about any of these things?"

"In fits and starts, yes. I would wait for something to come up and make a point, and he would ask me if something bothered me, and I would admit that it did. But I also told him that he had to make his own choices. I didn't want to control him."

"Didn't it occur to you that Tom would have wanted to make you happy? I mean, compromises have to go both ways."

"Of course, and he would tell me that. And most of the time things like that weren't issues. It only would come up when I had to go with him for publicity reasons. And I was more focused on the fact that..." Shit, this is harder than she realizes. She doesn't ever like to talk about this, not ever. "Over the fact that the public didn't seem to like us together."

"How did you know?"

"Usually the things they would say after Tom and I appeared in public together. Mostly about my appearance, how nobody understood what Tom saw in me. Hell, I didn't understand it myself, hearing other people say it just made it worse. And Tom seemed more focused on my self-esteem issues, he was very concerned, he even told me once that he wanted to be the voice in my head, the one telling me how beautiful I was. He didn't want me to listen to doubts, and he bent over backwards trying to change my low image of my physical appearance."

"Did that work?"

"Sometimes," she confesses. "It...it wasn't a continuous thing. I mean, Tom works, he's not always there. We've had to be apart for pronounced periods, and sometimes good habits get broken and worse ones take their place. We've had less separations, admittedly, as the years have gone by. Tom always wants me to go with him, you know, and sometimes I can do that and sometimes I can't."

"But you've put his career first," Dr. Summers says. "It seems like you think that you've made a lot of sacrifices for him, but what about his sacrifices for you?"

Agnes doesn't quite know what to say to that. "Well, he can't be paraded around as a bachelor anymore," she manages. "And we all know how that image sells in Hollywood."

"True enough, but being married rarely stops women from lusting over a man, and even so, the only restriction that puts on him is preventing him from spreading his seed wherever he likes."

Agnes scowls at Dr. Summers' tone. "That isn't all."

"Then what, Agnes? Tell me."

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She moved to London for him. She goes with him to his sets (when she can). He doesn't always go with her to church, only when he feels like it. Which, admittedly, lately, has been regular, but only because of the circumstances, she's sure. 

"He supports my career. He wants to come to my signings but it disrupts them at times so my agent prefers that he doesn't."

"It takes the spotlight off you," Dr. Summers agrees. 

Agnes can't say anything else. She sinks into silence for a full minute, and just as Dr. Summers is about to speak again, something occurs to her.

"Dr. Summers, do you think that telling Tom I thought our marriage was a mistake hurt him enough to make him emotionally available to another woman? That it was, essentially, my fault?" And he was afraid to tell me for the very same reasons he did it, she thinks miserably. 

"You can't take responsibility for Tom's choices, Agnes," Dr. Summers admonishes gently. "But if you think there is a root, we can discuss it."

"It's just... I'm afraid that maybe something else might have pushed him to having a sexual affair with Clare."

Agnes swallows, draws a deep breath. It's more painful than she realizes, to talk about it. 

"About six months ago, Tom and I were at an award show. Probably the Baftas, I can't keep track anymore, it was in London. And there was a picture of us that showed up in a magazine, a picture that he really liked. I didn't even know about it until about a month before he went off on the shoot where he...where he met Clare, this picture shows up at our house. And it was huge, I mean he had had the thing framed. It was easily a meter tall...he had tracked down the photographer and paid to have the picture enlarged from its original image, full high definition of the two of us. For our seventh anniversary. He was so damn pleased with himself, he kept going on and on..."

She chokes. She remembers his face when he presented her the thing, having wrapped it himself in Snoopy wrapping paper that had to have taken the entire roll. And she remembers his face when she didn't light up upon seeing it, his keen disappointment, his hurt...

"What was wrong with the picture, Agnes?" Dr. Summers asks.

"Noth..nothing, really," she manages. "I just...I hate seeing pictures of myself. I mean I really hate it, I always have. He's so naturally photogenic that he doesn't realize some of the rest of us can't take a good picture to save our lives, and even all done up like I was...I just...I didn't like it. I mean, it wasn't a bad picture, but in that huge frame, and the fuss he made over it. He was so excited and it was like I had literally killed his puppy right in front of him."

Dr. Summers contemplates this for a moment. "I can imagine he was hurt. He hasn't mentioned this to me. Do you want me to talk to him about it?"

"I hurt his feelings, I know I did," she sobs. "I mean, he told me how beautiful the photo was, how it just seemed to him to be the epitome of how well we went together, how beautiful I was that night, how happy we looked, how proud he was to have me on his arm, and I know he meant it, but I...I just didn't see it. I don't know if I've ever seen it. God...I mean, I never realized how much my low self esteem hurts him. I never thought something like that could be selfish. But something like that just makes me see our differences, how we don't match. It was like it had been magnified to an unbearable scale. He didn't even suggest hanging it in the living room. I think it disappeared into his study, but he never put it up."

"So you think this is part of what pushed him into having an affair?" Dr. Summers asks.

"It's saying our marriage is a mistake all over again, isn't it? Not in so many words, but still the same thing, yeah?"

"Only Tom knows the answer to that. I really think we need to all speak together, about these things, Agnes. And I know all of this is upsetting, but I think this is something that needs thought. For your part, you need to examine why you married Tom, Agnes. I mean, you love him, he loves you. But there are a lot of things to untangle here. Other things must support that foundation or it just doesn't work. You've given up things for him, but he also has to give up things for you. He needs to communicate with you. If Tom was sensitive enough of your feelings, he might have realized that the picture was a bad idea. He may just not have thought it through. He has to deal with the consequences of his choices just as you do, you can't take all the blame."

That made sense to her. Tom could get so excited about things sometimes that he didn't consider consequences. He just acted.

"I just feel so overwhelmed," she breathes. She's cried so much she feels like she's inhaling salt.

"I know. It seems the laundry list just grows longer. But I think we can break it down into smaller, simpler pieces. First, you have to decide, to choose in no uncertain terms, whether you wish this marriage to continue. I know you want to dwell on choices and actions from the past, and those do need to be dealt with, but right now, Agnes, you have to decide where you are. Whatever you thought in the past, right now is what matters, and if you still believe, right now, that it was a mistake to marry Tom, is it a mistake to continue to be married to him? And second, regardless of your choice, Agnes, I am concerned about your self-image issues, if they are wreaking havoc in your life as they appear to be. With or without Tom, you have to come to terms with accepting yourself as you are."

"How do I do that?" Agnes asks, her voice so very small. She wonders how it carries across the thousands of miles of ocean to reach Dr. Summers' ears, but somehow it does. "What do I do if it was a mistake?"

"Mistakes can be corrected in different ways," Dr. Summers says, soothingly. "Its not unfixable, Agnes. Neither is balance. If the balance between you and Tom is uneven, it can be adjusted, if you want your marriage to continue. But that takes work and you have to decide if you have the faith to do it. If it's worth it to you."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Agnes have it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (runs and hides)

The conversation runs through her mind over the following week. She was told specifically by Dr. Summers to write things down, but writers block doesn't seem to just apply to her fiction. The depression makes her seek out sources of relief. And the largest of those sources is the very reason for her pain. 

She hates Tom.

She loves Tom.

She wants to be with him so badly, his absence is becoming like an open wound. She foolishly thought that she was an independent person, who could live alone if she had to. That she could give Tom up if she truly wanted. Why had she ever thought that? The man is in her flesh and bones. Being without him is like being without herself. 

And yet she wants to leave him. She wants to sever him from herself like chopping off a limb gone gangrene. 

A second international phone call to Fr. Greene has her asking him if she has to divorce Tom if she doesn't want to live with him as his wife anymore.

"I don't advise it," Fr. Greene says, "but morally, you should see if you qualify for an annulment. Although from what I understand, that's highly unlikely. You may be able to live a celibate life in a state of separation from him, but Tom, not having the same beliefs as you, might seek another relationship, and thereby be led to error into think he's free to try again. Morally, if you're married, you need to find some kind of reconciliation. And Agnes, please remember, it's barely been three months. This sort of thing takes years. You shouldn't rush it. Maybe an extended separation will help you somewhat, but it should be toward the intention of reunion."

This helps to organize her thoughts a bit, but it doesn't help the depression. And then, out of the blue, she comes out of the bathroom (having forgotten a towel and completely naked, as she thought she was alone) to find Tom sitting on the couch in her room at Angie's house.

"Tom!" Agnes shrieks. "What the hell!" She flees back into the bathroom and grabs her T-shirt, hastily pulling it on.

Tom stands, not even sheepish, in spite of his next word. "Sorry."

"How the hell did you get in here?" She tugs down the hem of the T-shirt, her underwear and jeans having been shed in the bedroom before going into the bathroom. 

"Teresa let me in," Tom says. "How long has she been working for Angie, anyway?"

The answer is fifteen years, but it escapes Agnes for the moment. Of course, Teresa doesn't know the situation. Of course, she thinks Tom is here for Agnes and she lets him in, no big deal. 

"Besides, I'm your husband," Tom adds, looking rather stern. "I've seen everything you have. Memorized it, actually." He crosses his arms, stands his ground.

"What are you even doing here?" she asks, still blushing. 

"It's been two weeks, Agnes," he says. "I wanted to see you. I wanted to try talking again."

"Yeah, because that's getting us so far," she mumbles. Tom sighs, shakes his head, the lines of his face drooping.

"Agnes," Tom says, his voice almost pleading, although it still retains that unyielding edge, "would you at least do me the courtesy of hearing me out? I have something I want to say to you."

She wonders how it could be different from all the other things he's said to her, but she presses her lips closed and looks at him expectantly.

"Please sit down," he motions to the couch. She sits, and he stands before her, his fingers weaving together nervously.

"You were right, before, to be angry at me about Diana, I understand that now," he says slowly. "I want to apologize. And I want to explain.

"I've been talking to Natalie, Dr. Summers, over these last couple of weeks, and she's helped me understand. But first I want to make something very clear. Please hear me out.

"I am not in love with Diana. I was not in love with Diana. I had feelings for her. Those feelings could have potentially turned into love. That much is true. And I should have told you. I should have talked to you. I was afraid because it was going to hurt you, but now I see that it would have been better to face that hurt then, rather than have things all fucked to hell now. But I was a coward. I didn't want to face things, I didn't want to accept that things had gone sideways between us. I thought I could fix it. I thought if we just paid more attention to each other, put more effort into our marriage, it would all blow over. And this thought was made worse by the fact that it did work, at least for a while."

"Why?" Agnes asks, her voice cracking. "Is it because of what I said? Is it because I said our marriage was a mistake?"

Tom sighs, deeply. "Yes," he admits, running both hands through his hair. "I thought...a whole manner of things. Bottom line is that I was hurt. And she was a friend, she was a distraction, she was of a like mind as me, we got along so well, we worked together so well, and I was vulnerable and that's why those feelings started to develop. And the fact that I knew she felt the same toward me...it was like sinking into quicksand. But. I did stop. I did pull myself together, with some help. She knew when she saw us together. She knew it wasn't going to happen. And when she pointed it out to me, I knew she was right. So I regrouped, and tried harder."

He drops to his knees in front of her. 

"The fact of it, Agnes, is that I haven't been fair to you. I had to ask myself why you thought our marriage was a mistake. I should have talked to you, but instead I wanted to be the one to fix everything. I felt responsible for you. I knew you wanted to take your lead from me and I felt I hadn't lived up to it, and that was why you regretted being with me. I admit, I was, what do you call it? Serving two masters? I'm not as good with scripture as you..."

"You've got it, Tom," Agnes whispers. Tears stand in her eyes but don't fall.

He reaches for her hands, takes them gently. "I've been unfair to you. Put aside the fact that I am an unforgiveable arse for betraying you, but even before that. I thought I could do two things and I didn't think I'd ever have to choose between them. But I realized that when I decided I wanted to spend my life with you, one of the biggest reasons was that you were the first person in my life who mean more to me than my career."

He seems stunned by his own admission. His eyes drift over her head and his hands drop from hers. He stands, turning his back. 

"My big break was the best thing that ever happened to me. The highest point of my life. I couldn't stop grinning like an idiot. You can see it in those videos and pictures from the Avengers press tour, especially. I always shake my head when I look at myself in them. How utterly besotted I was with my newfound fame. It wasn't being famous, it was being validated." He turns back to her. "It's why I broke up with Susan. It's why it never worked between me and Kat, although she figured it out before I did. Nothing meant more to me than that. I knew when the ball started rolling that it would be lonely because it would require everything from me. It was a marriage, just like you told me. I was married to the work. And then you came along."

He returns to her, sitting beside her this time. 

"You were the first person I felt strong enough about that if I was forced to choose, I would choose you. But I told myself that was silly, that situation would never arise. I was being extreme, as I always am when I get excited. And when we got married, and you were so supportive, you never made demands from me...and you should have. But you didn't. And instead of returning that trust, I abused it. I let it get away from me. And over time, I dropped so many of our little routines. Do you remember? In the evening, after your shower." He reaches for her hand again. "Brushing your hair, making sure you'd shaved. Or the snacks with tea. Brie and figs with honey drizzled over them, and dancing to that old music you like so much, and reading to you in bed, and appearing in your study just when you were about to drop because you'd been writing for so long. And you were doing well too, with your books, that I didn't think you'd notice. I thought you'd appreciate the time apart. I always knew you were rather solitary and I just took it for granted you'd pick up your own slack. But I was wrong about all of it. I let it all fall apart. And then I blamed you when it did. When you stopped staring at me as if I were going to disappear, when you stopped touching me randomly, playing with my hands and arms whenever we sat together, in public or in our own living room. I thought you'd lost interest in me, but I know why now. I know I pushed you away." 

Tears are starting to run down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Agnes. I've failed you on so many levels."

When Agnes speaks, the words are a croak. "Is this what Dr. Summers told you?"

Tom shakes his head. "No. I thought of all of this last night, after we talked about my...she's calling it 'my emotional affair.' I hate how that sounds. It makes me sound like a serial cheater."

Agnes stares at him, torn. He wants to blame himself. She knows it isn't all his fault. She knows why she thought their marriage was a mistake, and she wants to tell him, but she knows he'll find a way to turn himself into the villain again. He's throwing himself under the bus -- and she can't decide if she should let him or not. Her conscience is pulled in two directions. He cheated, but she feels as if she made him vulnerable to that cheating. She has to tell him, but she doesn't understand it fully herself and doesn't know how.

"I think we should have waited to have this talk with Dr. Summers," she says, pulling her hand away. Tom's face falls, if that's possible, at the motion. "And you just came here to tell me all of that? Tom--"

Tom visibly struggles with his patience. "I know I showed up unannounced. But...God, I'm sorry, but I need my wife! No, I'm not sorry -- not that I need you. But..."

He's struggling to say something. Agnes knows there is a hard reason why he would just appear in her room like this. He needs to spit it out.

"It's also Regina," he says, deflating. "She's exactly what you said she was. She's been sniffing around, trying to play the sympathetic friend card. Every day, it's, 'Oh, poor Tom, she's being so unfair to you,' and 'Are you sure you don't want to get a drink and vent?' She won't relent. And dammit, Agnes, I don't want that! I don't want to get near her, and I need you! I am desperately trying to make things better instead of worse and...I need your help."

His tone mellows so much at the end. So naked and pleading that Agnes' heart softens. He buries his wide, moist eyes behind his hands, and Agnes wonders if hell could be worse than this moment of despair she's experiencing.

"I wish I could, Tom," she whispers. "And I...I mean, thank you. For keeping away from her. For not causing any more scandal."

"It isn't about scandal," he says dismissively, his voice rough. "It's about being true to you. We have to work at this, Aggie. We have to try harder."

"What should we do? Talking doesn't get us anywhere, we just fight."

"We have to try harder, setting up sessions over Facetime. I think it would be more reliable than Skype for international calls. I know the time difference is going to make it difficult but if Natalie can clear us an afternoon appointment, I will make sure to get mornings so we could do it. We have to work this out. Somehow."

"Or we could get divorced," Agnes says before she can stop herself.

Tom stiffens. "You're not going to divorce me," he says, sounding utterly confident. It makes her want to slap him. Instead she slinks away a few feet down the couch cushions.

"We could look into an annulment," she says softly, playing with the hem of her shirt. 

"What is that?"

"It means that...that we were never married," she says, hating herself more and more, wondering how this has all turned her into the villain, turned her against her own self. "It means that there were circumstances that excuse us."

"That we were never married?" he says dully.

She nods. "That it never happened. That there was some loophole that failed to prepare us."

"But there wasn't," Tom insists, and anger starts to make his eyes blaze. "You fucking insisted on crossing every 't' and dotting every 'i,' just to prevent that kind of thing. Retreats and counseling and months of waiting. How dare you even suggest that---" he stands, raises his hands, and they go to his head, into his hair, again. This time he's pulling, actually yanking at his locks. She's seen him do it before, rarely, mostly on the screen. It's a sign he's at his limit. He's going to blow. "We are married, Agnes!" he shouts at her, lowering his arms quickly in a chopping motion. "End of story! And I know you haven't lost your mind to try and divorce me, and I am sure as hell not going to divorce you! All that fucking talk about the sanctity of marriage -- it sunk in, dammit! And I'm not letting you welch out!"

She shrinks from him. The horrible urge to throw her arms around him and tell him she was an idiot and she's sorry grips her and prevents her from shouting back, keeps down the anger she's been feeling on and off over the last month. 

She shakes her head. She doesn't want to fight again, but she needs to let it all out. "Tom, honestly...why would you even want me to stay?"

He stops his movements. His look is very dangerous, but it's not enough to put her off, yet. "Why would you say that?"

"Look at all of this," she sighs, sweeping her hand. She gets up, taking a few steps from the couch. "Look at what all of this has cost you. Look at what it's doing to you. Don't you want it to end?"

"The only ending I'll accept is you and me back together again," Tom says, that dangerous glint still in his tone. 

"But why?" she nearly wails. He advances but she pushes her hand, palm out toward him, and shakes her head. Then she turns away, grasping herself tightly. Where this is coming from, she's not sure but it has found a way out of the dark and it will not go back. "I'm not a saint, Tom! I know we've had this conversation before but I don't think you understand. I'm not. I pushed you away -- I said horrible things to you, I hurt you and I made you vulnerable. No, I didn't make you cheat, that choice was yours, that's true, but with Diana, why were you afraid to come to me? You said I'm so fucking fragile -- and you're right!" She turns to him, and his face, while still holding that dark shadow, also contains wide, shocked eyes.

"You had every right--"

"No, I didn't! I didn't have the right you strike out at you. I didn't have the right to put you in a position where you would be tempted. I failed you Tom. And I've done it again." Tears slide down her cheeks. "Before Diana it was the talk about having children. And before Clare...it was that fucking portrait."

Immediately, Tom reacts. He stiffens, his back going straight, his jaw clenching. 

The knowledge solidifies in her mind as quickly as it pours out of her mouth.

"That was my fault, totally my fault," she says, that salt feeling in the back of her throat again, permeating every swallow. "You went through so much trouble. And I don't know what got into me that day, it was...it's always something. I just was overwhelmed by it, and..."

She chokes. She can't say it. She knows it will hurt more. But she has to know, if it was the reason, if it was what pushed him away.

"I shouldn't have surprised you," Tom says, surprisingly quiet. "I should have talked to you about it first, asked you what you thought."

She shakes her head. "No, I know y0u, Tom. You saw something. You've always tried to make me feel beautiful. I know you wouldn't have picked that photo if it wasn't special in some way, if it didn't make you see me in a good light. God, that sound so weak," she mutters.

"You were gorgeous in that picture," Tom says, his voice strangely hollow, for such sweet words. His eyes are on the floor, not on her. "I don't know what it was, maybe it was the way you looked amused by everything around you. The way you're smiling, I don't know..."

Worse, the way Tom was smiling at her, in the shot, Agnes remembers. He was looking down at her and the look on his face...the love she saw...

Her chest starts to constrict and her heartbeat, already elevated, feels like she just ran away from a hoard of zombies. All she can do is nod her head. 

"I hurt you, didn't I?" she squeaks.

He finally looks at her, brow furrowed. He doesn't answer, he doesn't have to.

"You've always been so sweet to me and I've...it's like rejection, isn't it?" It comes so clearly now, making her chest ache. 

Slowly, so slowly, he gives a little nod.

"Like I don't think your opinion is important."

He flinches, starts to turn away, stops himself.

"I do that to you. Whenever I put myself down, whenever I don't like how I look, whenever I let my low self-image get to me or make some thoughtless comment. It's why you stopped...." Trying to be the voice in my head, she thinks, but she can't say it out loud. Her throat won't allow it.

"You wouldn't listen," he says, so very soft. 

Agnes realizes her nose is running, and immediately self conscious she grabs at several kleenex to mop herself up. Tom for his part just wipes his nostrils against his fingers. 

"So that's why. And there's Clare, young and confident and she cares what you think..."

He flinches again. "It wasn't that cut and dry," he manages.

"Maybe not, but she had to be a relief from me. I mean, what kind of wife have I been? What have I given you?"

"You are a good wife, Agnes," he says, more force in his tone. "You've given me a home, a life, more than you could realize." He takes a step toward her.

"Insecurity, self-pity, rules to follow, nagging, doubt--"

He shakes his head. "I have been much less than the perfect husband--"

"See? Exactly! What have I turned you into, Tom? So desperate for affection that you turn to others? That you would even consider loving someone else? That you would sleep with someone else?"

"Those are my choices, not yours--"

"There is no choice one of us makes that isn't connected to the other, especially not something like that." Now she sees it. How she has pushed Tom away. How she has never thought herself good enough for him, not after all his reassurances, his prohibition that she ever say anything putting herself down in his presence, particularly in regard to her looks or weight, both of which she has never felt secure about. How she has always thought herself too good for him, and his shallow career and his worldly friends and his lack of true spiritual depth. "And somehow I've brainwashed you into thinking you need me when you don't."

"That. Is. Enough!" He snaps. The rage is out now, full force. He reaches her and grabs her arms so hard she knows there might be bruises later, but he seems to have lost his mind. "How dare you say something like that to me! Do you think my character so weak that I wouldn't know my own mind? That I would hand over my free will to someone that I couldn't trust it with? That I can't be held responsible for my sins because I don't know any better?"

She can't answer. She doesn't think those things but at the same time she is afraid of each and every single one of them. And her lack of an answer is making him angrier.

"I am none of those things," he growls at her. "And I know your faults and your virtues as well as I know mine and I know you aren't perfect. But that doesn't mean you would ever do to me what I've done to you. But that you would blame yourself..." his voice cracks a bit, then more as he goes on, "that you would leave me thinking it would make me better -- that I cannot suffer. I am nothing without you, just as I know your independence is an act, and that you desperately depend on me and want me to take care of you even though it goes against everything you've tried to be your whole life."

"Yes, the victim, always the victim," she mutters, not feeling how hard Tom is gripping her. "Tom, cut me loose. Find someone else, who can be what you need. Who can give you a family, children, can let you be what you're meant to be because that isn't me..."

Now she feels it. His nails have dug into her with his sheer frustration and he lets out a noise she didn't know human beings could make. She squeals and he lets go, but instead of her crumpling, he is the one who falls on his knees and grabs her around both legs and pulls her into him, his head against her hip.

"I'm bad for you, Tom," she sobs, even as her hand goes to his hair, stroking it. 

"You are the only good thing about me," he counters, also sobbing. "If you leave me, Agnes, I would want to die -- just curl up and die."

"No, Tom! I know you think that now, but it isn't true. I'm...I'm trying to give you a chance!"

"A chance at what?" he roars at her, pulling back to glare up at her.

"A chance to move on!" she shouts back, although with considerable less rancor. "A chance to have love again and try again--"

"I! Don't want! To try again! With anyone! But! You!" His voice is slow, angry, thunderous. "The fact that you'd even suggest it is an insult!"

The force of his words pushes her back toward the couch. Her legs hit the edge and she falls onto her backside.

Tom pants heavily. "Do you still love me, Agnes?" he asks, softer but with the same force in his tone.

She can't lie. She wants to, desperately, but she can't help herself. "Yes."

"I love you too." He stands, towering over her. He pulls her in like a small moon in a planet's gravity, his big hands grasping her arms and pulling her up into his. She puts her arms up in a defensive gesture, but they get caught in his hold, her elbows pressing against his ribs as her chest is crushed against his. 

Then her fingers find her way to his beard and she's cupping his chin and her fingers drag through the soft yet scratchy path of hair, and he lowers his mouth and they're kissing, and all she can taste is pure salt as he kisses her again and again and again. 

"You're mine," he says, between the kisses, his breath heavy, panting. "You're mine and I'm not giving you up. Not ever."

It's desperate. Who he's trying to convince, she's not sure. When he catches his breath, and the fury of the moment passes, they stare at each other. 

"I'm trying to do the right thing, Tom," she whispers. "You have to accept...we might be doomed."

"I don't believe it," he says, more calmly than she would have ever believed. "If that was true, you would have left me the moment you knew I'd cheated."

Agnes pulls away from him, drops back onto the couch with her head in her hands. She can't take any more of this conversation. But she can't quite bring herself to kick Tom out, either.

"Tom, I'm tired," Agnes says. "I think you should go."

Tom perches next to her on the couch. "I can't stay here, with you?"

She nearly groans. "Tom, I'm not ready for this. I need space. I can't seem to get enough space from..." She starts to pant, the anxiety getting to be too much, and she concentrates on her breathing. She hates this. She hates being this much of a mess. She doesn't even recognize the person she is right now, it's so far from who she thought she was. 

"Just for tonight--"

"Why?" She scowls at him. "Why tonight? What makes tonight, tomorrow, the next night any different from a hundred different nights?" They stare at each other, and a horrible thought occurs to her. "You mentioned Regina before. Said she was sniffing around. And that's why you came here?"

"I..." He nervously tugs at various parts of his clothing. 

"You said you needed me. For what? Certainly not to carry on this melodrama we've been trapped in for the last three months. What do you want from me, Tom?"

He seems startled by her sudden line of questioning. His mouth moves but words don't come. It's rare for Hiddleston to not know what to say. He always knows what to say, it's part of his make-up.

"Are you...are you afraid of doing something you'll regret?" she asks, tenuously. 

It feels like that day, that first day this all started. The questions. He has the same look on his face, like she knows something he doesn't want her to know.

"Are you afraid of Regina, Tom?"

He frowns, starts to shake his head, but stops.

"She wants you, for whatever twisted reasons. And you're afraid of yourself, aren't you? Afraid of what you might do...with her?"

He stops his nervous movement, stills, looks at her with wide eyes.

"I don't want to," he says, his voice very small. "I don't want her."

"But you do," Agnes says, very calm. "On some level. That's how you've been dealing with these crises, isn't it? I reject you in some way, and you...what, what is the M.O.? You find a way to...get even with me?"

"NO!" he protests.

"Subconsciously, maybe," she says, nodding slowly. "Some retaliation, something you know will..."

Tom shuts his eyes, shakes his head. "I don't want her. I don't even want to risk --"

"Tom," she cuts him off, but gently. "You have free will. You don't have to give in to her. I can't...I can't protect you. You have to choose."

"I am choosing," Tom says, a bit of bite to his softly spoken words. "That's why I'm here."

She nods. But still, he's tempted. The thought is in his mind and he knows he is capable of falling, again. She isn't sure if she should be heartbroken that even after all this, he would even think of it, or if she should be proud that he's fighting. 

She feels both.

"I can't..." she starts, then reconsiders. "Come here."

She swings her legs up on the couch, sliding down in a prone position. She holds her arms out and Tom practically falls into them. His head rests on her shoulder and chest, his broad frame half-covering her like a blanket. He wraps his arms around her waist and shuts his eyes, and she strokes his hair, thick and soft against her cheek.

She lies with him that night. He falls asleep quickly, exhausted from the ride they've just taken. She dozes in and out, her thoughts troubled.

She knows what she has to do now. She knows it with utter certainty.

She has to let him go.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes takes a brief walk down memory lane as she contemplates her future with Tom.

At about five in the morning, Agnes realizes that somehow, she has been pushed toward the edge of the couch, and Tom is wedged between her and the back. So she gets up, unable to sleep anymore, and goes downstairs.

In Angie's house, the main stairs go in two directions -- one is the grand staircase that goes directly down into the living room. The other way leads into the back toward the garage. A door separates it from the kitchen. When Agnes lived there, she spent a fair amount of time going in and out through those stairs. She always avoided it when Angie had guests in the main room, usually other celebrities or whichever actor or actress she was rehearsing with, so the back stairs were a blessed convenience.

Agnes sits on them, feeling the power of memory overwhelm her. It's so significant, even moreso now. It's how everything began. She rests her head against the lightly paneled wall and shuts her eyes.

A week or so after Thanksgiving one year, Angie had one of her Saturday night dinners, to give people a chance to eat something other than turkey and stuffing. This was a semi-regular thing, at least monthly, for Angie to host people in her home. Agnes was mostly used to it, and came in for a plate, stayed and chatted a few minutes, then made quick her exit to get some writing done before the night grew too long. Socializing always exhausted Agnes. She could do it for a while and then she felt like a cell phone whose battery icon was blinking low. 

Tom followed her into the enclosed little space. Agnes was sitting on the lower stairs, answering a quick phone call from her agent who wanted to inform her about a change of some date, when he appeared. She was just hanging up so it wasn't like she could shoo him off. 

"Hi," she said, toying with her phone. She immediately felt anxiety upon seeing the look on his face. He wanted something, specifically from her. The way he focused on her was unnerving. Everything about him, to her, was unnerving. He was so damn handsome, so much more so than any picture she'd ever seen, and she was already crushing on him way more than she was comfortable with before she'd ever met him. Everything about his physical appearance drew her -- his height and breadth, the way he wore his hair, his long arms, veiny hands, and a smile that made all other smiles look like pale, shriveled little half-moons, no matter how many or few teeth he decided to show. She had tried to avoid being around him as much as possible -- it was painful, being that close to someone so wonderful and knowing there was no way closer. She was frightened by her level of attraction to him. His attention made her self-consciousness multiply in exponents of ten. She'd heard the jokes about his "listening face," but this was a new level. 

"Hello," he said, his hands doing that classic nervous twisting thing that involved far too much fingers for her comfort. "Do you um...do you have a few moments?"

"Sure," she replied, not sure what else to say. 

He drew a breath, looked serious, and then burst into an open mouth smile, letting out his breath. "Um...sorry. I'm just...uh, yeah, ok. I was just wondering if you would..if you would like to, of course--" he motioned toward her with one hand, shoving the other in his pocket, a gesture desperately wanting to be casual. He drew another breath, and then said, very calmly, "I would like you ask you out on a date. Dinner, preferably, but of course it's up to you."

Agnes' eyebrows rise. She had crossed her arms over her knees, phone still in one hand, and it almost slips from her fingers. She grasped it, pulled herself a bit tighter because the sudden terribleness of this question sent her shivering as if it was twenty below, and the evening was actually very warm. 

"You. You want to go out with me. On a date."

He nods, and smiles pleasantly. The word "why?" wanted out of her mouth but she knew how that would sound so she swallowed it. 

"Wow. That's so...that's so flattering."

The pleasant smile slipped. "But," he said.

"Well, it isn't that I don't want to. That I don't like you." He had to know that she liked him. She felt like it was written all over her. But men, even incredibly charming British actors who were as insightful as he was, were thick. Very thick. But how could it even be possible he couldn't tell? It radiated off her like heat. "I mean, I do. Heck, everybody does," and she chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. Mostly her mood. 

His smiled flickered back up, went down again. "But you don't like me like that?"

Agnes, as a rule, didn't lie. Not even in situations like this. "No, I do definitely like you," she muttered. "More than what's good for me." Like simply didn't cover it. But he was a fantasy. He was a unicorn, a rainbow. He was impossible for her to have, like trying to hold a star -- it would just burn through her fingers in seconds. 

He leaned forward, his smile softening, giving her that little eyebrow flicker. "Then what's the problem?" he asked.

This was getting more complicated by the moment. She wanted to put him out of his misery quick. No, scratch that -- it was her misery. She had to shoot him down. She had to. "I don't date, Tom," she said. It was true enough. Even though the fangirl in her was begging her to make an exception. If he was going to cross over into reality, she had to examine the feasibility of them dating. And truth was, it wouldn't work. 

He backed up, surprised. "You don't?"

She shook her head. "Not in a good five years now. And it isn't because I hate men or I don't want to fall in love, I want those things. But...I'm not like most people. And now that I just heard myself say that, I know how stupid that sounded."

"No, it didn't sound stupid. You aren't like most people. Quite frankly you aren't like any people I know, that's why I wanted the opportunity to get to know you better."

"Well, I could give you a long, drawn out explanation, but honestly, I think it would be a bad idea for us to go out. I don't think it would go anywhere." Or worse, it would go somewhere in a real hurry. I don't trust myself with you. 

He frowned. "Why not?"

"Because...because you might have...expectations. And I wouldn't live up to them." Or down to them, she thought ruefully. 

"Is this because I'm known?" he asked, both hands in his pockets now. "I mean, I hope that you've gotten to know me well enough in these last couple of weeks that you might see I'm not some spoiled celebrity--"

"No, I don't think that," she interrupted, wrapping both hands around herself, resting her crossed arms on her knees. 

"I'm not looking for some cheap fling," he said, very seriously. The smile was gone but there was a light in his eyes as he looked at her. Something...gentle. Warm. "And I know I live in another country, and I know the long distance thing is daunting, but...this is just dinner," he added with a chuckle. 

She smiled back. Oh how it hurt. It hurt worse than a kidney stone. A kidney stone right then would have been a delight. "I know. And dinner would be lovely. But not a date."

He sighed. "What is it really? I mean, the long version?"

She hesitated to tell him. She didn't want to insult him. But he seemed very open, and curious. She cocked her head to one side, and said, "You know I'm Catholic, right?"

He nodded.

"Well, I'm not casually Catholic. I'm a committed, sweat-the-details kind of Catholic. Most of us call ourselves Trads. We go to Mass unless we're dead, we do confession on a weekly basis, and we don't have sex until we're married."

His eyebrows shot up. "I'm not--"

"I know you aren't, Tom," she quickly stopped him. Of course he isn't. Not with me, for damn sure. "I know. But if I go out on a date with you, that means that I am looking into the possibility of a relationship with you. And if I'm doing that, then I'm considering you as potential marriage potential. There isn't any trial-and-error, who cares if there's no future in it mentality with me. And I just don't think that there's any hope of compatibility with us. You are, to put it bluntly, a modern man. And I am about as anti-modern as I can get."

He paused for a good twenty or so seconds, eyes down, considering this. Then he looked back up at her, and said, "How can you be so sure, unless you get to know me a bit better?"

She shrugged. "True. I don't know you well. But I do have a very distinct impression of you. And I know that you and just about every single man on the planet, even the ones who claim to be Catholic, expect any relationship we would have to turn sexual at one point. I would not do that." She said it very plainly, even though she was convinced this was too much information. He wanted the story, he was going to get it. And at the last, maybe he would be weirded out enough by her and stay the hell away. "There aren't many people around who have any idea of chastity, so you'll have to forgive my assumption." 

He nodded, looked down again. "I guess that's fair. So it's not just me?"

"Of course not," she said. There was no real harm in saying it now. "You're adorable. If I was a different person, I'd be all over you. But I've committed myself to a particular lifestyle, and if that means that God has determined I'll be single forever, fine. If I die a virgin, that's actually a good thing, in spite of what the rest of the universe says."

Tom seemed to take the information about Agnes' virginity in stride, but she could see the flicker of incredulity on his face. "Well...I can't pretend I'm not disappointed. Are you sure you won't change your mind?"

Agnes had realized, in that moment, the truth of the saying about how the only thing worse than NOT getting what you wanted, was getting it. 

She shook her head, swallowing down the confusion, the conflict, the tangled knot of elation and dejection that warred in her gut, and smiled at him as she stood up. "I'm off to bed, actually. I hope you're not upset with me. I know how hard it is to put yourself out there...and I'm sure you never get rejected."

He chuckled, a self-depreciating sound. "Oh, you'd be surprised," he said with a friendly smile. 

Standing on the step, she was almost at the same height as him. "It's not personal, Tom. Of course I like you. I'd have to be deaf and blind not to." She suddenly felt very bad, and wanted to comfort him somehow. "I know it's been said a million times, but this is actually true. It's me. It's totally me."

He gave her a tight smile that wasn't completely dejected, and she started up the stairs, still watching him over her shoulder. He stepped forward and leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs as she went. 

"Goodnight," she said, not sure what else to say. 

"Goodnight," he replied.

"You okay?" she asked, pausing at the landing.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," he replied.

He was not fine. He told her, not too long after, when he'd finally convinced her that he was a worthy consideration as a partner, and that she was going to find out exactly how horrible it was to get what you really want, that in that moment he'd come to a conclusion that he wasn't as humble as he had always tried to be. His pride stung at being lumped into what he called "mundane people, who limit themselves," and decided to be better. He didn't want to be common. He wanted to be extraordinary. And he considered her extraordinary. He wanted to live up to her.

Agnes hears someone coming down the hall. Whoever it is, they turn toward the main stairs, and from the heaviness of the steps she's pretty sure it's Tom. He walks through the kitchen, past the door, behind which she sits, silent. Then she hears his voice.

"Oh, I thought you were Agnes. I'm sorry, Angela. I know I'm here unannounced."

"Don't worry about it, Tom," comes Angie's voice, coming from outside on the patio. Probably enjoying a cup of coffee before heading to some early meeting. 

Agnes knows she should do something to announce her presence. She knows that Angie, being a loyal friend, is not happy with Tom at this moment. But Agnes also knows that she's not going to be rude to him. Plus, Agnes does not want to get stuck in that particular place just yet -- between a husband and a best friend. Maybe she should go back upstairs and ---

"I suppose Agnes has kept you up to date on recent events," Tom says, and Agnes hears the drag of the heavy metal chair at the table where Tom sits. "I hope you're not too upset with me for coming here. I did wind up spending the night...up on the couch," he adds, quickly, possibly as a reaction to a look Angie might have given him. 

"I figured you'd be here eventually," Angie replies, sounding weary. "It's none of my business, anyway, Tom. It's between you and Agnes."

A silence descends. Agnes stands, wanting to open the door, but then Tom speaks again and she can't help it, she wants to hear without being observed.

"I am sorry for what I did, Angela," Tom says, softly, but just loud enough for her to hear. "I am trying to fix it."

Angie's reply is delayed by a few seconds. "Since you seem so determined to oust my opinion, I'll say this much. I'm honestly stunned at you. I didn't think you had it in you to do something like that. You never struck me as that kind of person. But I guess I should know better than to be surprised by anything anybody does anymore."

"I was surprised at myself, too, to be honest," Tom replies. 

"Were you?" Agnes can hear the anger rising in Angie's voice, how she struggles to keep it down. "I also can't believe that Agnes is even still talking to you. The Agnes I know would have left you choking on her dust. Maybe that's me, I'd never forgive one infidelity, let alone two. But it's her choice. If you two reconcile, like I said before, it's not my business."

"But we won't be friends anymore, will we?" Tom asks, his voice rather small.

"I don't know," Angie sighs. "I just...don't know what to make of you, Tom. I mean...I just don't know." 

"Whatever else you might think," Tom says, "I love her. I love Agnes. That's never changed. And I'm ready to do whatever I have to--"

"Tom," Angie interrupts, "You know, I was cheated on. About five years back. A boyfriend."

Tom stops. "I didn't know."

"Agnes didn't tell you because I didn't want her to. I made her promise to keep it between us. I was afraid of drawing attention. But the reason the guy cheated? He told me. He was giving me an out. He knew I didn't want to be in the relationship. So he gave me a good reason to leave. Is that what you were doing? Giving Agnes a good reason to leave?"

Tom pauses. Agnes strains, worried she won't hear his answer.

"I don't want her to leave," Tom says. 

Agnes hears the scrape of a chair, and this time the step is lighter. Angie is in her kitchen, refreshing her coffee, from the smell of it. 

Agnes lightly goes up four or five steps, then comes down, making sure to bounce hard on at least two of them. Then she opens the door. Angela turns around upon her entrance.

"Morning," Agnes murmurs. She looks around. "Seen Tom?"

Tom is in the sliding patio doorway. "Morning," he says, giving her a hesitant smile, which she returns just as hesitantly. 

"I'm heading out," Angie says, filling her portable mug and screwing in the lid closed. "Let me know what...you'll be doing." She throws both of them a smile before stepping around Agnes and into the garage.

"Wait here," Agnes tells Tom, and turns to follow Angie into the garage. "Angie, wait!"

Angie stops at the driver's side door.

"I'm sorry," Agnes says. "I shouldn't have...without your permission. And I'm sending him back to the hotel. I'm staying here, if that's okay, or I can get my own room--"

"Agnes, calm down," Angie says, although her face is strained. "You're fine. You can stay here. I don't think he should stay here, but if you need him to --"

Agnes shakes her head. "No. I need more time. I need...a lot more time."

The two women stare at each other for a moment. Then Angie smiles.

"It's okay, dear," she whispers, putting her hand on Agnes' shoulder. "You don't have to tell me anything until you're ready. Whatever play you make, I'll back it. I'm your friend first, you know that."

Agnes nods. Angie gets into her car, and as she pulls 0ut of the garage, Agnes heads back into the house.

Tom is in the kitchen. She doesn't doubt, even though she had been quiet, that Tom probably overheard their conversation. "You probably heard all that," Agnes says, reaching for a cold soda in the fridge. "I know I overheard your conversation on the patio."

"You still want me to leave?" Tom asks. 

She nods. "I will come to the hotel for our appointment with Dr. Summers. But Tom, this has to stop. This back and forth. This chaos. I've been all over the map and I'm...I'm tired. I want to get on with my life."

"Your life?" he echoes. 

She nods. "However it is," she affirms. "Don't you want to get on with yours?"

He looks down at the coffee mug with the last remnants of whatever Angie had been brewing in it. Then he sets it on the counter, untouched, and comes around the kitchen island to approach her. He reaches for her hand, which she lets him take.

"I hope it's with you," he says, simple and sad. 

She tightens her hand around his fingers. "Tom, you need to seriously, for your sake as well as mine, ask yourself how much you mean that, and how much of it is just the drama of these last months." He opens his mouth to object, but she cuts him off. "I mean it, Tom. I'm not saying anything either way. But you have to ask yourself -- do I make you happy? Truly?"

They stare at each other for a moment. The intensity of her question has startled him into thoughtful silence. Then, he leans over and kisses her forehead.

"I love you," he says. And then he leaves.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes makes her choice. Another rather short chapter, but very important.

"Agnes, will you come and sit down?" 

She has been standing by the hotel window for the last fifteen minutes. Tom's request is quiet. They haven't exchanged more than a few sentences since she arrived. All she can do it stare out the window, at nothing.

This is the hardest thing she's ever done in her life. 

Tom arranged the two chairs in the room to sit in front of the computer. Facetime is already going, and within a few seconds of Tom's request, she hears Dr. Summer's voice.

"Hello, Tom. Is Agnes there?"

"Yes, she's by the window. Agnes?" he tries again.

"Agnes," Dr. Summers says, and Agnes finally refocuses her eyes, turns around. "You need to come and sit."

She moves robotically. She can feel Tom watching her but she can't return his gaze. She can't. Some primal instinct is screaming at her that she's about to make a mistake. But it's the same primal instinct that screamed at her before she'd married him that that was a mistake, too, so she feels uncertain of it. Both can't be right. 

"All right," Dr. Summers says. "So we all know that I've spoken to both of you, extensively, in the last few weeks. I know there have been developments. There are a few things I want to make sure you two have discussed before we can continue. Tom, have you apologized to Agnes for not telling her about Diana sooner? Did you explain to her what we discussed?"

Tom nods. Agnes nods too. 

"Good. Agnes, I know your tasks were more introspective, but have you talked about them to Tom at all?"

"We've talked about them somewhat," Agnes says. Her clothes feel too tight, even though she's in simple jeans and a T-shirt. Her skin prickles like it's been touched by thorns. Her upper chest aches in anticipation of what's coming.

"And have you told Tom? Of your decision?"

"What decision?" Tom's voice is much louder this time, and edgy, but he's still trying to hold back. It finally makes Agnes look at him. He has dark circles under his eyes, and he looks rather gaunt. The ginger look on him, complete with goatee, always did highlight the sharpness of his cheekbones, make the lines of his face stand out. But she hasn't seen him this thin since he played Hank Williams. It's only been twenty-four hours or so since she saw him, so it must have been creeping in slowly, over this last month of separation.

He's looking at her, but there's a guardedness to it. Like he's expecting a blow. He has to be expecting it.

Her lips feel like lead when she finally parts them. "When you go back to London, Tom," Agnes says, "I think it would be best if I say here, in L.A."

He stares at her blankly, then looks down at his lap. His arms sit on either armrest of the chair, his fingers flicking restlessly. Now they still and wilt. His lips twitch, absorbing her news.

"I have to say, Tom, that I agree with Agnes' decision," Dr. Summers says. "We spoke the afternoon of your last conversation. I do think at this point, separation is best. You both have issues that need to be worked out individually."

Tom's eyes rise and there is a hardness in them as he takes in the doctor in the screen. "I thought," he says, voice cool, "that your job was to save marriages, not let them fall apart."

Agnes tenses. She knew a fight was coming. Tom has so desperately tried to keep them together, and desperate seems to be the key word. He has to see. Especially that night she'd left this hotel room, how he had physically overpowered her. The writing was on the wall. This conclusion, to a great extent, should be a relief.

"I understand your anger, Tom," Dr. Summers says, her voice sympathetic. "But--"

"It's my fault, Tom," Agnes says, her voice soft, gentle. "If you want to be angry at someone, be angry at me."

His eyes flash to her, and then he closes them, lowering his head. He seems to be gathering himself.

"Tom, Agnes isn't making this choice to hurt you. But even you have admitted that there are serious issues that are not being resolved. And many of them aren't your fault. Agnes knows this. She needs the time and space to work through them."

Tom leans forward. His hands cover his face and his elbows rest on his knees. He just sits there, says nothing.

"I'm not punishing you, Tom," Agnes says. "Dr. Summers said you might see it that way, but she'll tell you, and I'm telling you, it isn't." Agnes grabs her chair and moves it in front of Tom's. Now that the ball is rolling, the fear has thrust itself forward into action. She will grab the bull by the proverbial horns and ride the ride. 

One of Tom's hands drops. The other holds his head up by the forehead and he looks at her. "You always do this, Agnes," he sighs.

"Do what?" Agnes asks, bracing herself.

"You push me away," he says, both hands extending to her in frustration. "You blame yourself, you put yourself down, you...you won't let me be there for you! And you're doing it now! You're running away from me!"

"I'm not," Agnes says, shaking her head. "I know it looks like that---"

"I'm the one who was unfaithful," Tom says, pressing one hand to his chest. "I am responsible--"

"For that, and that alone," Agnes finishes. "The rest is mine, Tom. All this time, all the reasons we've sorted through, it comes down to one thing. Both Diana and Clare, both were triggered by something that happened between us."

"I stayed away from Regina," he continues, almost as if he didn't hear her. "I didn't give in."

"I know," Agnes grabs one of his hands, which flap around aimlessly. "But it's like you said, Tom. I push you away. I've been doing it for years now."

"And so your answer to fixing it is to leave?" He sounds more flummoxed than angry, but it's there.

"I know how this seems, Tom," Dr. Summers interjects. "And truthfully, it's rather amazing you've lasted seven years. It means that somehow, you two have been able to deal effectively enough with the issues even without knowing exactly what they were, but over time things that are still unresolved build up, and they've caused this break. Yes, your infidelities have marked the disruption between you, but it is a symptom, Tom, not a cause."

"I don't believe that," he mutters. 

"It's hard for me to accept, too," Agnes says with a shaky breath. 

"Don't leave, Agnes," Tom grasps her other hand. It seems he just has to try, one last time. Agnes almost smiles. "Let me help you get through it."

"Oh Tom...I would let you fix everything, if I could let myself. But I can't. I don't know why, I wish I did...and...when I was talking to Dr. Summers last night, I realized that I was...I was expecting this. Deep down. When I found out about Clare, at least. I had been waiting for some disaster. What does that say about me? That I didn't believe in us, not really, not from the beginning. And I've caused you so much pain, and I want to stop. I want to stop hurting you and if you stay here, if you stay with me, I'm going to continue. Until I can learn how to stop."

He shakes his head, in denial. "I won't go back to London, then," he declares. "I'll just stay here in L.A. as well. We don't have to stay in the same place, we can continue like this, you at Angie's or wherever, and me at the hotel." 

She feels the tears starting. "Dr. Summers," she says in a trembling voice.

"Here."

"Can we call you back? Give us...fifteen minutes? If we don't, you can call us back. Please?"

"All right. Fifteen minutes. I know this is a volatile situation for you both." She clicks off, giving them privacy.

Agnes turns back to Tom. She struggles to keep her voice tender, but it's hard with the sobs that wants out of her chest. "This is not something you can help me with. This is one of those situations where if you really do love me...you have to let me go."

He starts to withdraw. He leans back in the chair, but Agnes pulls him forward by his arms. She grasps Tom by both cheeks so she can stare steadily into his face. It is important for him to hear her -- his emotions are so high, he's fighting it. Those incredible eyes are glowing like precious stones with his tears. They streak down his cheeks, not heavily like hers do but slowly, one at a time. Her fingers tighten in his hair, holding him in place.

He has to hear her. He has to listen. 

"You have to go back to London. I am staying here, by myself."

He immediately bridles and she clamps down, forcing him to maintain his position.

"Tom, please, I--"

"I don't want to go," he said, his voice low and broken.

She shakes her head. "I know you don't, my love. But you have to. Tom, please. Let me do this." She draws an unsteady breath, determined. "I know you love me, Tom, I know you do, I don't doubt it. I will never doubt it. But the truth is, the hard truth you and I must face is -- I'm not making you happy. And that's my fault. This doubt that weighs on me, it's eaten through everything, as much as both of us want to pretend it isn't there. It's there, Tom. This is the only way to stop it."

His eyes sharpen. He shakes his head, even though she won't let go of him. He grabs her wrists, and she is convinced he's going to shove her away with real force, but instead he just holds her there, his long fingers all the way around even though she is no delicate creature. He shuts his eyes and his chin tilts down, the tears dripping off his lashes.

"Tom, I will always, always and forever, be your Aggie," she whispers into the curls just above his brow. "That will never change. You will always be the only one for me. But...but you aren't my Tom. I haven't let you...and because of that, you haven't. It's my fault, not yours. You have to let me fix it. So I have to let you go. I have to let you go and figure this out. And the only way I can is if you let me go. Please, Tom. Let me do this for you. Let me love you enough to walk away. I know you've tried so hard, so very hard these last years to make me happy, but now it's my turn. Let me make you happy."

"I won't be happy," he groans, and then raises his eyes to her, the look in them nearly shattering her resolve. "I will never be happy without you."

"And you're happy with me?" she says, incredulous, but her tone is soft enough that the feeling reaches him, and she starts to see it, starts to see his understanding crystallize in those eyes that cut her and soothe her and hold her. 

A long silence drifts between them. Tom's fingers twitch and squeeze the skin of her wrists as she lets it sink in, lets him process it.

"I still don't want you to go."

She nods. "I understand, sweetheart. I don't want to go. But I have to. I have to do this for you. I know it's painful, I wish I could help you. I wish you could help me. But we can't. We have do this on our own. That's how much I love you. I will break my own heart for you."

She feels him flinch. It happens when she calls him "sweetheart." She can't remember the last time she's called him that. 

He's going to burst. His lips crinkle and purse and the tears flood his cheeks. He lurches forward and buries his face in her neck and wraps her so tightly in his arms she literally feels her breathing constricted, but she takes it. She lets him hold her, she strokes his shoulders, the back of his head. She presses her face against his hair and just takes it. Just gives him whatever she has in this precious time they have left.

Finally, after a long time, he raises his head and meets her eyes. "Can we...can we please make love? One last time?"

The request causes everything inside her to lurch, but she pushes. "I...I can't, my darling," she nearly sobs, but forces her voice to work correctly, as his muscles twitch at the use of her endearment. "Making love is supposed to bring us together, unify us. When I said I have to let you go...I mean all of you. I'm sor---"

His mouth terminates the rest of her word. He kisses her like he has never kissed her before, like he will never kiss her again. If she thought she couldn't breathe before...

"You haven't...it's been so long since...you called me any of those things," he whispers against her mouth when he lets go long enough to speak. Everything tightens around her, his eyes glowing with a strange light.

For one terrifying moment, she is convinced he's going to do something desperate. The way every muscle in him is coiled and clamping down on her, he could easily do what he wanted, he is in complete control, and she is absolutely lost in him, in his mouth, his body. But then, just as the thought appears, it vanishes as he begins to release her. He pulls away, not just physically but emotionally, as if closing a door. When he opens his eyes and looks at her again, it is from a great distance. But it is not without love.

"I love you, Aggie," he says. "I will always love you."

"I know, Tom. Whatever happens in these next few months, I promise I'll remember that."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes is at the bottom of the hole. Can she get out? (seriously, I'm asking)

ONE MONTH LATER

This is the lowest she's ever been. 

She didn't think she could get any lower. Truthfully, it was starting to feel like a bottomless pit. The second she thinks that this is it, she can start to climb out, the bottom gives way again, and she slides down.

She hates herself.

She absolutely loathes herself.

She hardly looks in the bathroom mirror anymore, and if she does she can't meet her own eyes. 

It was bad enough, dealing with her self-image issues before. She could still have good days. She could remember that, even though it was crazy, Tom loved her and would always love her.

But now...

Now the memory of that love only causes pain. Pain that she has inflicted on him. She made him miserable and then she deserted him. The sheer unworthiness she feels is enough to make her lie face-down in her bed for hours. She can't understand how he can love her, she is so utterly unlovable. She cannot think of a single good thing about herself. This is why she can't go back to him. She doesn't deserve him. How can he love her when she detests herself like this? 

Agnes has had the same dreams every night. Dreams that she was standing in front of a completed wall. Tom sat on the other side, facing away from her. She beat on the wall, wanting to tear it down, but it was solid underneath her hands and it bloodied her skin.

When she wakes up, she instinctively reaches for him, and it hits her.

It's not like the other times when she slept alone. Then, there was the knowledge that Tom was just away. They would be together again soon.

Now, all she can feel is the ghost of his hands on the mornings when he was awake before her and trying to rouse her. She was a stubborn sleeper, not wanting to get up even when she was awake. This lead to wonderful morning sex. And now her body is betraying her, viciously reminding her of what she's given up.

It's a fitting punishment, she thinks in her clearer moments. In her less clear moments, she just wishes she could die.

The ups and downs of the past month have taken their toll. When Angela sees the cycle beginning again, she puts up with this behavior for a day before she marches into Agnes' bedroom at 1:30 in the afternoon, and sets down a stack of paperbacks, all with Agnes' name on the spine, hard, at the edge of the bedside table. Agnes' head jerks up at the sound. 

"You have to get out of bed," Angela says. "Before I start throwing these things at you."

Agnes puts her face back into her pillow. "Harpy," she grumbles, muffled.

"Do you see these?" Angela points. "All of these came from you. From your brilliant mind. So stop calling yourself awful names, I can't listen to that anymore."

Agnes winces. She hadn't realized that Angela could hear her mutterings. 

This has been a cycle. 

The first week, after she'd packed and left the hotel, she had stayed in bed nearly all day, getting up to pee, to drink, to maybe pick at some food. Angela tolerated it for a few days before she started dragging Agnes everywhere she could think to attempt to soothe her poor friend. Spas, salons, nail parlors. Massages, facial scrubs, manicures, pedicures. 

The second week, Angela forced her to start hunting for a therapist. That Sunday at Mass, Agnes had approached Charles for help. 

The parish she used to attend, before moving to London with Tom, was the same church Charles and all her Catholic friends had attended, as it was one of the few in the Los Angeles area that offered the Traditional Latin Mass. St. Victor's was much the same as she remembered, and people seemed to remember her as well, greeting her as she passed along the aisles, looking for Charles, whom she saw slip out the back door. Not to escape, she was sure -- he always had a small gaggle around him, and today is no different.

Three or four young men stood in a semi-circle around Charles as they talk. Charles spotted her and hugged her tightly. She dragged him away, and he excused himself momentarily from the small crowd.

"Tom and I are separated," she said quietly when they were at a safe distance from prying ears. 

"You are?" He seemed stunned. "What happened?"

Agnes sighed. "It's too complicated to explain right now. Bottom line is that my issues are at the heart of everything, even his infidelity--"

"You aren't blaming yourself for that, are you?" There was a warning tone in his voice.

Agnes shrugged. "Literally, no. He made a choice. But my behavior contributed to that choice. And I just...maybe you were right, maybe we shouldn't have gotten married."

Charles sighed, shifts his feet. "Regardless of circumstances then, those aren't the circumstances now. You can't reconcile? You've tried?"

She doesn't want to tell him too much, not right now. Angela pushed her from bed this morning to get her to do this and she needs to stay upright. She can crawl into a fetal position later. "Like I said, it's rather convoluted. The stressors between us...this is for the best, for now. Our marriage counselor wants me to get a therapist and I'm having trouble finding one. Do you happen to know anybody? I'd really rather it was someone Catholic."

Slowly, Charles smiled. "You're in luck. Come with me."

Charles introduced her to one of the young men -- or not so young, about her age -- that had been in the group she'd interrupted. He was of a stocky build with shaggy brown hair that was neatly tamed with gel, and gold-rimmed glasses. A psychologist, specializing in cognitive therapy, but open to other methods as needed. He insisted she call him by his first name, Malcolm, and they exchanged numbers so he could call her and let her know the first available appointment he had.

The third week, she was in his office, spilling her guts. It takes two full sessions for Malcolm to get the whole picture, as well as connect to Dr. Summers, to whom he is to give reports about Agnes, as Dr. Summers is still monitoring the couple. Agnes has three sessions with him that first week. By then, Tom was getting ready to go back to London. The temptation to see him, to at least say goodbye, was so strong.

But she can't. Dr. Summers had outlined the terms of the separation very clearly.

Tom and Agnes are not to have contact for a minimum of three months. The only contact they will have is through Dr. Summers, who will continue to handle their therapy as a couple, which will take place during the separation once a month. Tom will seek an individual counselor in London, someone Dr. Summers will recommend, and Agnes will do the same in Los Angeles. Although Dr. Summers doesn't know anyone in the area, Agnes is confident she can get help.

The separation was neither a declaration that they are breaking up, nor that they are getting back together. Both parties are to carefully consider their future with the other. In three months, the possibility of a reconciliation will considered, and if more time is necessary, the separation will be extended with re-established terms.

Neither party was to speak to the press about their situation. This would play havoc with Tom's publicity team, but hiding things is what they're supposed to be good at. Plus, he had major publicity tours coming up for two finished projects, let alone the film he was currently working on. One of those projects, however, was the film on which he met Clare.

The question of Clare has nearly been forgotten. The thought of her pregnancy also forgotten. If she was pregnant, she was around four months along, and no word? But the news doesn't come from Tom. The news comes from Agnes' own publicity department, who were contacted by Tom's publicity department. 

Clare is not pregnant. It was a ruse.

Agnes was also told that Clare has been banned from the premiere of the movie because Tom demanded it. He still has enough pull to make certain things happen. He has bodyguards to make sure she doesn't do anything stupid like try to publicly confront him like she did to Agnes.

It doesn't offer her any comfort. Her work with Malcolm feels like it's tearing her apart, slowly, and all the pieces she sees bring her nothing but dismay. 

Tom finished Raggedy within three weeks or so of Agnes' decision. He stayed away from her, as instructed. She stayed away from him, as instructed. But it doesn't mean she doesn't have a way of keeping track of him. Being the wife of an actor who habitually is away filming, she's had time to learn whom to ask, and what the right questions are.

This whole affair had literally been wrecking the shoot. Emotional scenes were fine -- Tom channeled the depression and loneliness into his character and it worked beautifully. But the last few weeks he'd been expected to be experiencing the blush of love and it hadn't been working. Putting aside current emotion and channeling others on demand was the nature of his work -- but he was so emotionally compromised himself that it didn't ring true to him, and by extension, the director, and both became frustrated and take after take suffered for it. Still, somehow, filming had wrapped only a week behind schedule. 

Christmas is two weeks away. It will be the very first Christmas that they've been apart. Maybe this is part of what is aggravating Agnes' depression. 

 

"I think part of this," Angela says, "if you want my opinion, is because you have to see him in three days."

They are outside, on the patio. After pulling Agnes from bed and making her get dressed, they went for a walk -- on the treadmills in Angela's work-out room. Los Angeles in December could be lovely, but this year it was cold and grey, with lots of rain. Angela has the television set to a beautiful scenery channel, but nothing Christmas related. She knows it's just going to depress Agnes. After a half hour of walking, the glassy look in Agnes' eyes starts to dissipate. Her appetite returns, and they make a light breakfast of bagels and salmon and cream cheese, with red onions. 

"I have to go see Malcolm tomorrow," Agnes sighs. "I need to write in my journal."

"You need to exercise or he's going to have to increase your medication," Angela replies. "Whatever he's got you on now, isn't cutting it. You're getting worse, not better."

Agnes flinches.

"I'm sorry if I'm harsh, sweetie, but it's killing me to see you like this. I can't imagine how..." and she trails off, unwilling to finish.

How Tom will react, Agnes finishes for her in her head. Tom would be devastated to see her like this. And that's salt in the wound. She puts down the rind of the bagel, not wanting to finish, although she's already eaten the important parts. 

"I'll talk to him about it," Agnes says.

"Please. But he's a psychologist, he can't prescribe medication, can he?"

"There's a psychiatrist he's connected to that does it for him. I talked to the man, he thinks I have clinical depression. I hate those words. It just makes me sound like a sad person."

"Your husband cheated on you, he's leaving to go across the ocean, Christmas is in two weeks, and you are officially separated. Of course you're depressed."

Agnes slumps down in her chair. "It's just that...sometimes I worry that...that being with Tom made everything worse. Not that he was bad to me, not by any stretch. But I think I wasn't cut out for marriage. I don't think it was my vocation. I've been following a bad path for the last seven years, and it's warped me, changed who I was supposed to be into someone I don't recognize anymore."

Angela takes a long moment to consider her answer. "I don't see how accepting someone's love could be a bad thing," she hedges.

"That's just it -- have I accepted it? Or have I been...rejecting it? I reject his opinion of me, continuously. What kind of person does that to the man they love? I used to think that it was because he wasn't Catholic, that he just didn't understand me, and maybe that's part of it, but I think more it's me, holding back. I don't know how not to, Angela. I don't know how not to shield myself, even from someone who's done nothing but love me--"

"Not nothing but," Angela says. "I'm not a psychologist, so maybe my opinion isn't much, but Tom should have realized that something was wrong years ago, when that business with Diana happened. You're the first one to point out that love isn't just blue fluff, it's blue steel as well. He was your husband, he should have sat you down, told you what was going on, told you his feelings, and you should have gone for counseling much sooner. Who knows how much of this would have been avoided? And he didn't, so don't paint him like some martyr."

Agnes puts her arms on the table and nestles her head on them, face down.

"What does Malcolm say about this?" Angie asks. "I'm sure it's come up."

Agnes pulls her face up and rests her chin on her hands so she can at least see Angela. "He reminds me that Tom holds his share of the blame, too. But the lion's share of it falls on me, I know that much."

Her first session with Malcolm had surprised and unsettled her. His office was warm, well-lit, with high windows and earthy shades in the curtains and furniture. She was going to sit on his couch but he pointed to a chair that was closer to him, an armchair that was identical to his. They sat as equals. He was younger than her, but spoke with a certain kind of authority that usually came from older men. 

"Cognitive therapy is about changing how you think," he explained. "But I have to tell you that I don't make decisions for you on your progress. This whole thing is about you. I'm also not one of those passive doctors who sits and listens to you talk. That's why I want your journals completed before our sessions, so I can read them before you come. I will break apart the things you say and make you question them. I will point out to you the traps you're falling into. This is going to be work, not just sitting on someone's couch, talking. When you leave our sessions, I will suggest that you take quiet time to do some relaxing, and then once your brain has quieted down and you're over the emotional hump, you are going to reflect. Those things are also going to be turned into me."

She grinned at him. "I used to have nightmares about being signed up for classes I never went to, and then showing up on a day of a test," she quipped. "Sounds like that."

"I have to say that you may hate it for the first few weeks. You may want to fire me. But give me a month and you will start to understand."

It has been three weeks. And Agnes is suffering from a passive deathwish. She hopes the next week brings some enlightenment.

Malcolm acknowledges that Agnes is not quite making the progress they hoped. "It takes some weeks for medication to kick in," he tells her. "But at this point you should be a bit more level. I'll recommend it be increased. And I also think that perhaps one of the issues is that you're concentrating too much on Tom."

Agnes can't argue with him. She knows half the stuff she writes is about Tom. Worrying about him, hating herself for how she's treated him.

"I want you to make a conscious effort not to write about him. I want you to focus on things that are more about yourself. I think you're putting too much effort into taking blame and not enough on trying to stabilize yourself. Put Tom aside. I know that's difficult, especially since you're about to see him. How are you feeling about that?"

She gives him a very dry look. "I thought you said you weren't going to ask me how I feel?"

"Are you obsessing about what you're going to say?" Malcolm asks, ignoring her sarcasm.

She sighs. "A bit. I mean, I don't know exactly what's going to happen. He's been back in London for a week now, it can't be easy -- but I wrote about that, about him going to our house, all our stuff still there. All my stuff..."

"Yes. Did you want to move to London? When you married Tom, did you want to move to another continent?"

She considers her answer. "At first, I was terrified. I mean, it was living in another country. I couldn't imagine being anything other than an American. But I had always liked it, I liked the history, I liked the culture. And I wanted to be with Tom. London is so much a part of him --"

"What about you? What's part of you? I mean, if you didn't have to think about Tom, if you could live anywhere you wanted to. You said you moved to Los Angeles all by yourself. Was that out of necessity or choice?"

"As a writer I can live anywhere," Agnes says. 

"Where, Agnes?" Malcolm persists, gently.

"Probably here in L.A.," she admits. "When I came here, it was partially to be close to a publisher, and there was a big demand for my series to be made into a movie, and it was convenient, but I wound up growing a family here. A community. So if I could choose, I'd live here."

"That's why you're staying here, isn't it? Instead of going to your family in Indiana or back to London? Because to you, this is home."

She nods. "But London isn't a bad place -- it's steeped in literary history --"

"I never said it wasn't. But I'm concerned that you've been twisting yourself around for so long to accommodate what Tom wants that you've forgotten what you want. Even in your therapy, you're focused on what is good for Tom. But we have to look at what is good for you." 

She shakes her head. She doesn't quite see it that way. But even Dr. Summers had pointed out that she'd sacrificed a lot for Tom, and wasn't sure about what Tom had sacrificed for her.

"That seems to sound like something that grates on you," Malcolm observes. "Thinking about yourself."

"When I was single," Agnes replies, "My time was my own. That was really all I did. It was quite an effort to adjust."

Malcolm nods. "Not an unusual thing."

"But I wouldn't have made the effort if I didn't want to." She feels like she's trying to convince herself. She can hear it in her own tone. "It took a long time to...to just let myself be with Tom. I was always fighting it."

"When did you stop?"

"I don't know if there was any one time. It was little things."

Malcolm observes her closely. "One thing Dr. Summers sent to me in her notes," he says, "is that you distinctly said that Tom 'wore you down.'"

Agnes stares at him. "Well, he was persistent."

"I can understand. Tom strikes me as the kind of man to pursue something to its very end. If you offered him any hope at all, I can see why he didn't give up on you. But I'm not talking about him. I'm talking about you. You felt worn down, when you finally accepted his attention?"

"What are you asking? If I really wanted to be with him or if I just felt like I wasn't going to get rid of him so I gave in?"

"Did you?"

"It's TOM!" she practically shouts. Then she shuts her eyes, draws a breath. "I know, as a heterosexual man, you might not be aware, but in our world, Tom Hiddleston is quite a catch. To even be considered by him, to be the focus of his attention -- it's incredibly flattering."

"Not enough to build a marriage on," Malcolm points out.

Agnes sputters. "I may have...look," she says, leaning forward, her voice much more forceful than she realizes, "if you're suggesting I was brainwashed or bullied into something, you're way off the mark. The bottom line is I was afraid to accept his attentions because I knew what I was getting. I was insecure and I was worried that if I let myself love him like I wanted, that it would turn out to be some kind of joke."

"Like the boys in school," Malcolm supplies.

"Nobody has any idea how horrible that is," Agnes spits, tears starting to spot her vision. "None of them have a fucking clue of the damage that causes, the cute boy, the popular one, putting his attention on a girl and pretending he likes her only to have it turn out to be a big joke. It wrecks you. It makes you not trust anyone. I makes you think that anyone who shows any interest in you at all is just waiting to yank the rug out from under your feet. So when someone who is genuine actually does want to be with you, they're already three steps behind. I don't know who should be more pissed at those stupid school assholes, the boy or the girl. He's fucked them both." She reminds herself to breathe, realizing what she's been spouting.

"So you were afraid to give in to Tom because you thought when you did, he'd withdraw," Malcolm restates. "And he didn't. It turned out to be real."

She nods. The tears are dripping along her jawline. "Yes."

"You're right, you know," Malcolm says. "About people who do that. Teenagers mostly. I don't know where they got the idea, first time you really see it in media is in Carrie. Set the poor girl up and watch her fall. But it had to be before that. Damage that's done to you in childhood follows you through adulthood. That's why there's so much focus today on self esteem and positive self images. But that doesn't work either. There is good, and there is evil, and people stray on both sides. The important thing to remember is that even when people do horrible things, there is going to come a time when it isn't horrible. And that's okay."

Agnes hastily wipes the tears. She cries a lot during these sessions. "So what does that have to do with me marrying Tom? I took the chance."

"You say you took the chance, but yet you've constantly said you've pushed him away. When did you first start to notice that?"

Agnes takes a few minutes of staring out the window before answering. "I can't pinpoint it to any one thing. The first big thing I can think of is when I told him I thought our inability to have a child was God's way of telling me I shouldn't have married him."

"But that didn't happen overnight. You stew over things. Do you remember when you first started?"

She thinks some more. Her brain offers her glimpses. Him being away, leaving her alone, when he comes back it's almost the same thing, as he's so into whatever new project he's working on that she hardly has to change her routine. The first time she told him she wasn't in the mood because she'd felt ignored all day. 

No, these are small bumps in the road. She has to dig deeper.

"On our honeymoon," she says slowly.

"What happened?"

Agnes draws a breath. This isn't easy to talk about. It's very, very private and intimate, and she feels, to a certain extent, that it's almost a betrayal of the sanctity of their bedroom to tell Malcolm. But it's there. It refuses to retreat.

"I wasn't excited, about my first time," she explains. "I was afraid. I was so afraid. I mean, it wasn't like I didn't want to have sex. Sometimes I felt like all I ever thought about was sex, I couldn't imagine how much worse it must be for men, as they say that's all they ever think about. But about half way through our reception, I realized that when the evening ended, I was going to lose my virginity. I was going to find out the big mystery that everybody was always going on and on about. And I didn't want to. I wanted to put the breaks on the whole thing, I wanted to say, no, wait, I'm sorry, this was a mistake. I went too far with this, it was fun, but...see ya."

She's not laughing. Neither is Malcolm. "Did Tom know?"

"I smiled and faked it through the other half of the night. I knew he was anxious to get going, but when we got back to the hotel room and I went into the bathroom to clean up, I got as far as my bathrobe and I...froze. I sat down on the toilet lid and I just...couldn't move."

"What was it, specifically, that you were afraid of? Can you remember?"

"The whole act. I mean, I respected the power of it. I was worried of course about the usual things a virgin always worries about, will it hurt, will I like it, will it be what I've imagined it to be...and I was worried because I had never been intimate with Tom. I mean, I limited how physical we were because I knew how much I did want him. And suddenly I wished I had done other things first, I had made out with him on the couch, I had let him touch me or let myself touch him, so that at least it wouldn't feel like such a huge leap. And I knew he hadn't seen me naked. I mean, I felt like he was locked into the deal now and he didn't know what he was getting."

"So fears about your body."

She nods. "I always struggle with my weight. I used to be so much heavier but when I met Angie she helped me a lot. I don't think Tom would ever have even looked at me if I'd been the person I was before I knew her. I would have just been another obese fan indulging in impossible fantasies..."

"Stop there," Malcolm says. "Right there. Did you honestly think that Tom would reject you if he didn't like your body?"

Agnes immediately flushes bright red. "Well...no, but..."

"But?"

"Well, generally, men don't like heavy women."

"Were you like you are now, when you first married?"

"A bit bigger, I think, from my last encounter with the scale."

"So you were bigger. And before then you were bigger still. And you just said you think that Tom would not have been interested in you at all if you were as heavy as you were originally. I'm not going to ask details on that because weight is really subjective--"

"There wasn't any subjective when it came to my original weight," Agnes says with force. "I was obese. I was medically, morbidly obese. I couldn't even sit in the emergency aisle on an airplane. Legally."

Malcolm considers her for a moment. "Do you think a person's weight determines their worth?"

"What? Of course not!"

"You just determined your worth by your weight."

"No, I didn't, I just said I was fat--"

"You said Tom wouldn't have been interested in you. His interest is only limited to who you are on the outside."

"I didn't say that!"

"Then what did you say?"

Agnes opens her mouth to speak, but then can't. That night. That first night they were together. Tom had spent easily two hours trying to coax her down from the pinnacle of fear she'd trapped herself on. 

She sat on the lid of the toilet, and he knelt in front of her. His hands rested light on her hips, fingers trailing up and down, a soothing gesture. He had already told her how beautiful she was, especially like that, sitting plainly in nothing but her robe and underwear, the make up gone, her hair cleaned and lying around her shoulders, rapidly drying. He told her how beautiful she was the whole evening, in every look he'd given her, every kiss, ever absent-minded caress, every time he'd grasped for her hand.

Agnes took his face between her hands and kissed him. She had kissed him so many times, but this felt different. This time his mouth was open, and even though they'd already started playing at this in the limousine, and he'd already left a few love bites on the top of her breasts, this was the first time she'd done it. The first time she had slipped her tongue to the line between his lips and asked for entrance.

Which he eagerly gave. Before long they were devouring each other. She was surprised at herself, how much she enjoyed tracing those straight and not so straight English teeth with her tongue, she sensation of his Adam's apple moving against her lips, and how comfortable she felt letting him do as he pleased....

...until he'd reached for the sash of her robe, and she tensed. He instantly felt it.

"Tell me," he whispered against her jaw. 

"I..." The words were hard to say, even in this intimate state. "I don't like my breasts very much."

Tom pulled back just a bit, enough to meet her eyes. "You don't?"

She shook her head, very slightly. "They're...they sag. I used to weigh a lot more, you know...some things don't recover."

Tom gave her a very small smile, something in his eyes sparkling. His hands came up and slid along the sides of her breasts, making her squirm. 

"You have a history of being your own worst critic, Agnes," he said. "And at any rate, don't you know it doesn't matter? They're a part of you. And I love every part of you, unconditionally. Show me you trust me. Please."

So she did. She felt her eyes standing with tears of...something...when she finally lowered that robe. But Tom...he did everything right. Absolutely everything.

A normal woman would have loved him more than she'd ever loved him previously for what he did for her that night. How he put aside two years of celibacy for her and took his sweet time to make sure everything was as perfect as it could be, that she was as ready as she could be. 

Agnes had given him her body, all of it, without reservation, by the end. But she'd let it blind her. She'd let herself fall into that same exact trap she had watched so many others fall into, determined to stay out of it herself.

The tears that had flowed from her, Tom had taken them for her being overwhelmed with the new sensations. And while that was true, there was something else, something underlying it. Even as he told her that, after all this time, he finally understood why they had waited, why it was so important, and how he regretted that he couldn't have given her the same gift she'd given him. Especially when she reassured him that his past was gone, that all that mattered was their future.

It was easy to forget that sex could be blinding. That it could even blind love, and blind fear.

Even after all that, even after everything he'd done, she still felt that fear. That fear of letting it be real. Of letting it be permanent. Of letting it have her. The second she let go of that fear, the second she gave in, somehow she would become that girl in school that was going to find out that the popular boy who was showering her with attention was playing some kind of prank.

Agnes doesn't realize she's been verbalizing these thoughts until Malcolm says, "You realize that this isn't about Tom, right?"

She looks at him. She nods, very slowly.

"The only person who's judging you, Agnes, is you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I apologize for the late posting. I spent half the day yesterday at the airport. I meant to post this but I was standing in a line most of the time. But this chapter is long and very depressing, I warn you. But it's Holy Saturday so I guess the feeling fits the times. Of course, that implies that eventually there will be a Resurrection...still trying to figure that out. Ideas?


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes and Tom have their first session since the separation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I was late last week, this week I'm a day early. Although I may still be a dollar short.

Malcolm's words run through Agnes' mind over the next few days.

All this time, she thought it was about Tom. Not Tom alone, but about her and Tom. About their marriage.

Now she knows. She has to examine herself, without involving Tom.

Somehow, this feels rather overwhelming. Tom has been such a part of her for so long...and yet has he? Tom said she always pushed him away...

Now she has to do it for real. On purpose.

It's hard to cut through the anger. She's still so angry at herself. She still feels such hatred toward herself, for doubting Tom, for hurting Tom. When she sets up the computer at nine a.m., which is five p.m. in London, she isn't sure what to expect. She is still terrified. The anticipation in seeing the man she hasn't laid eyes on in over a month and yet has bound herself to till death do they part is a very strange sensation. 

It's too much. Agnes overloads, and winds up sliding in a funk.

"Hello, Agnes," Dr. Summers greets her, and Agnes feels a mild relief that Tom isn't in the room yet. "It's good to see you."

She can only nod. The funk is ruining her ability to talk.

"How have you been."

Agnes just shakes her head, shrugs. Dr. Summers seems to understand, and says, "The first month is the worst. That's why we do these controlled sessions, because the longer you're apart, the harder it is to come back --"

There is a knock on Dr. Summer's door and the woman turns to see someone enter the room. "Hello, Tom," she says, and Agnes sees Dr. Summers reach out and move the computer so that Agnes gets a clear shot of him. "I was just talking to Agnes."

Tom's eyes instantly land on the computer, hardly glancing at the doctor. He looks a bit shell-shocked, his eyes wider than normal. His wipes his hands against his thighs, a clear sign to Agnes of his nervousness.

Dr. Summers adjusts the laptop as Tom takes a seat. His eyes have not left Agnes for a second. She admits she hasn't stopped looking at him either, but seeing him in her computer screen feels so removed. Like ten years ago, before he was part of her life and just a movie star she had a crush on that lived on DVD's and on youtube. 

He has shaved. His chin is smooth, and he keeps running his fingers across it, as if looking for something to grasp but finding nothing. His hair is shorter, the auburn curls shorn away. It also looks like he's lost more weight, but he honestly looks good. 

She doubts she looks so good. Her hair is lank and tied in a ponytail. She knows she's pale and isn't sure if she's lost weight or gained it. She hasn't eaten much but after this she might set her sugar levels to a new high. 

"Hello, Agnes," Tom says, settling into his seat. His voice is strained, as if the words are an effort.

"Hello," she whispers. It feels stupid, shallow, hollow, saying hello to her husband like a little kid entering into a room full of adults. 

"We're going to keep things conversational, for now," Dr. Summers says. "Things are still very raw, so we need to just focus on getting comfortable again. Agnes, let's start with you."

Agnes looks down. She wishes she could just excuse herself. The need to bolt is so strong...of course, she might have to if her stomach keeps roiling like this. 

"You've been able to find a good therapist? Malcolm? I've spoken with him, he seems very easy to talk to."

Agnes nods. "I've had at least two or three sessions a week with him, in just the last two weeks. Christmas is coming and he'll be gone for a bit, so he wanted to make sure I had a grip before he leaves. He's having me read a book on Cognitive Therapy, so I can figure out what sort of traps I might be falling into."

"Okay. Tom? Have you found a therapist yet?"

"I've only been back for a week." His voice sounds so disconnected. Like she's hearing a recording. He usually has a warm tone, no matter the circumstances, it's his natural vocal range. But he sounds dry, choked. "But I am working on it. I'm interviewing the recommendations you made tomorrow."

"Good. Okay, elephant in the room. Christmas is coming, in a few weeks. I know that this is going to be a very difficult time."

Silence.

"Both of you need to make an effort to not be alone during that time. Tom, your family is here in London, yes?"

He nods, eyes down on his hands.

"Are you going to be with them? Or friends?"

"I'm actually going to spend it with my father," Tom says, voice strained. Agnes frowns. They've always gone to his mother's. She knows his mother is aware of their current situation, but he hasn't told her anything about what Diana thinks of it. Not that it takes a rocket scientist to figure it out. 

"Agnes, what about you?"

"Angela is going to be home," Agnes says, struggling against a swelling throat. "She has made it clear that she's not going to leave me alone."

"What about Nick?" Tom asks, and Agnes looks up to see he has raised his head, eyes on her. 

Agnes shrugs. "I don't know. I haven't pressed." I've been too busy being utterly miserable to care about my best friend's love life. And she feels like a self-centered jerk. 

"The timing is bad, to be sure," Dr. Summers commiserates. "But it's important that you don't make any critical decisions during this time. Depression during the holidays is common enough, but the two of you have legitimate reasons, and I highly, highly recommend both of you avoid alcohol. Even on New Years."

It seems that neither member of the couple has much to say on their own, so Dr. Summers continues.

"Okay, other than therapy, you both need to stay busy. You can't sit around and dwell. And I mean you in particular, Agnes. Have you been writing at all?"

Other than in the journal Malcolm makes her keep and turn into him, she's been an empty well. Dr. Summers' words sting. "Why me in particular?" she snaps, testy.

"You have a tendency to brood, Agnes," Tom says, not looking at her but at some pictures on the wall. 

"Well pardon me," Agnes mutters, but she isn't sure they heard her. She thinks, for an instant, about having a nice little fit, show them why they should be glad she's moping and not going on a destructive binge like she sort of wants to do at this moment, but the energy required is not present. 

"What does your schedule look like, Tom?" Dr. Summers asks, taking the attention off Agnes. 

"Um...not much, right now. We finished filming, and I came back." He is looking anywhere but at Agnes, but she can see the muscle in his jaw twitching. "There are some scripts I'm reading."

"You're still running?"

Tom sighs, shakes his head. "Sometimes. Not regularly."

"Get back into it. It will help. Agnes, you too, get into a regular activity routine. I know you mentioned once that your friend Angela acted as your personal trainer -- if she isn't too busy maybe she can help with that again."

"She already is," Agnes says. "When I can fit it in between sessions of brooding."

Tom lets out a heavy sigh. Dr. Summers scribbles something but Agnes sees the woman trying not to give her a disapproving look.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out. She can't keep up with her own mood swings these days. "I -- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay, Agnes," Dr. Summers replies. "Exercise is good. I know Malcolm has already adjusted your medications to help with the current circumstances, but exercise acts as its own sort of anti-depressant."

And it'll keep me from turning into a whale, Agnes thinks, but bites it back.

"Are there any other work projects coming up? For either of you?"

Tom seems to perk up, just a little bit. Agnes zeros in on this, and waits. If there was anything Tom was never shy about, it was his next project. "Before I left L.A.," he says when Dr. Summers gives him an encouraging nod, "I was approached by David Woolhouse, Anges, you might remember, he and I talked about letting me direct a short film?"

Agnes remembers. But Tom's other projects in front of the camera had filled up too much time on the calendar and he'd had to postpone. 

"He had a script he thought I might like. It's...very good." Tom folds his arms. "Anyway, we're going to meet again next week, when he returns to London."

"Directing," Dr. Summers says with an encouraging smile.

"He's wanted to do that for a while," Agnes points out. Tom gives just the slightest hint of a smile, and Agnes feels ridiculously proud of him.

She wants him to direct. She wants him to direct and produce and star and be the whole package. He's always dabbled in writing on his own, but the lure of having the right role always overshadowed everything else. Now, maybe, with the need to fill his time, he will take other roles more seriously, give them the same dedicated attention he's always given acting. 

And forget about me, that little voice whispers. 

"That's great," Dr. Summers says, but it's background noise. "Agnes, you released a book not a month ago, correct? How is it doing?"

Truthfully, she's paid no attention. "I'm not sure. I'll have to check."

"Maybe there's some publicity you can do--"

Tom shakes his head. "Not in her current state, you want her to do that? She's not an actress."

A flash of anger fills Agnes' vision, but then she realizes that Tom has said exactly what she was thinking. And that Tom is defending her.

"I'll...see what I can do. What projects I might busy myself with," Agnes reassures them both. 

"Next time, and I just want to prepare you," the therapist says, "we will go into some of the more delicate aspects of each of your therapies. See how we can address some of the issues, work toward a reconciliation. If both of you still feel that is the direction you wish to head in."

Tom lifts his head, his brow darkening, and his mouth opens to make some comment, but his eyes drift to Agnes and she looks away, quickly. He doesn't speak. 

"It's too early, Tom," Dr. Summers says. "Do either of you have anything you need the other to know? Once this session is done, you two shouldn't speak again until our next session. So if it's important..."

"Could we..." Tom starts, hesitates, tries again, "could we have a moment alone, perchance?"

Dr. Summers looks at Agnes. She seems to calculate the risks, and then sighs. "Five minutes, exactly. I will return. Please try to keep from overextending yourselves. Keep it friendly." Both she and Tom get up, and Tom walks over to the table where the laptop sits and makes himself comfortable in front of it. He waits until the doctor has left the room before he turns to Agnes.

"How are you?" he asks.

She can't quite meet his eyes. "I'm...not good. But we're supposed to keep this friendly."

Tom nods, fingers fiddling, as he reaches for the right thing to say, to somehow lift the tension and set things right between them. If such words existed they would have long since been spoken. 

"You?" she sighs.

"The same," he says. "It's hard, being in our house."

"Are you...are you angry at me?"

Tom looks startled. "Angry? At you?"

She nods, looks down. "I know I am. I'm so angry at myself." She rubs her eyes, anything to keep from looking at him, seeing how he's watching her. 

"No, Agnes, I'm not angry at you." His voice is so calm, so soothing. She wishes she could melt into it, could wrap it around herself and take it with her. But no, this is exactly why they needed to separate. She can't let him distract her from her issues. "Are you angry at me?"

She finally looks up, startled. He looks so terribly, terribly sad. And her own guilt magnifies.

"No, Tom."

"You should be angry at me, not yourself," Tom insists. "I did this. I did this to us--"

"No," she snaps, more sharply than she should, but she can't take it. "No, Tom, you didn't. Remember, it was a symptom, not a cause. I've tried to tell you before, I don't know why you won't hear me--"

"Is your therapist filling your head with this stuff? This Malcolm?" Now he's angry. She reminds herself he hasn't started his personal therapy yet, so he hasn't had a chance to steady himself. 

"No, Tom. We're not going to get into that." She sounds too calm to her own ears. And she suddenly hates herself even more, and realizes that this was a bad, bad idea. They aren't ready. There's still too much hurt, too much pain to wade through. They can't see the forest for the trees, as the saying goes.

"I love you, Agnes," Tom says. "I hate being away from you like this."

She feels the muscles in her face start to convulse. She's going to burst into tears. The words that slip out are from her own frustration, and very unwise.

"I don't know why. There isn't...there isn't any reason. I don't see anything in me to love."

Tom just stares at her for a very long moment, his mouth slightly open. Then, with a hard blink of his eyes, he gets up and leaves the room.

She does burst into tears. She hardly hears when Dr. Summers returns, and sits down in Tom's place. Wisely, the woman waits for the worst of the storm to pass.

"I will admit, I listened in," she explains. "Tom has left. I shouldn't have left you two alone. It was too soon, I'm very sorry."

Agnes' hands are pressed to her cheeks, trying to stop her sobbing. She draws several heavy breaths, blows her nose, and swallows many times before she can reply. 

"Maybe we should just start the divorce process now," she finally says. "I just don't see... I can't see a way back."

"Agnes, Tom wants to reconcile, very much. He has a very hard time, watching you beat yourself up like this."

"But I deserve it," she squeaks.

"No, you don't," Dr. Summers says. "You both share responsibility for this situation. Trying to take on more than your share is just as harmful as trying to take less. We're interested in truth and healing here, Agnes, not blame."

"The more truth I get, the more I see how many things I've done wrong," Agnes says. "The more I see how I'm the source, I'm the cause. Tom isn't the one who's changed, it's me. I'm...I'm bad for him, Natalie. I'm so bad for him."

"Not because you aren't worth loving," Natalie replies. "I know Malcolm is trying to bring you around to realizing how you can love yourself again, but until you accept your worthiness of that love, this cycle will continue."

Agnes nods. "Which is why I should end it with Tom. I can't keep dragging him into my own destructive cycle. I never should have let him into it in the first place."

"Don't you think Tom should get a say? He is a free person, and capable of making his own decisions about his own life. If he chooses you, who are you to say he shouldn't?"

There's something wrong with those words, but Agnes can't put her finger on it. "When he goes to therapy, when he starts to peel back his own layers," she says, more to herself than to Dr. Summers, "he'll see it. I know he will. I just want to be ready for it."

Dr. Summers sighs. "And how well does this work for you?" she asks. "Being ready for bad things that might never happen. What's your success rate with that?"

Agnes opens her mouth to reply, but can't. Nothing comes to her.

"Okay," Dr. Summers says. "When is your next session with Malcolm?"

"Tomorrow."

"I'll get my notes to him tonight. You need to talk to him, Agnes. You need to let this poison out. And..." she hesitates, then goes on. "Knowing your faith disposition, I have to ask. Have you been praying on this?"

"All the time," Agnes says. 

"And do you think..." Natalie hesitates, then says, "This is off the record. This is from one Catholic to another. Do you go to confession?"

Agnes nods. "About once a month."

"I know that when I go," Natalie says, "I often get mad at myself for confessing the same things, over and over. Do you have that problem?"

"All the time." Agnes feels her breathing start to steady.

"And do you think that affects our ability to be forgiven?" Natalie asks. 

Agnes shrugs. "It's not supposed to. And what choice do we have, anyway? Give up on the sacrament? I mean, most sins are habits. We know we struggle with particular things. God knows that, too."

"So should God not forgive us, because we do the same things wrong, over and over?"

"Of course He will!" Agnes catches herself, her sharp tone. "That would...that would make Him a liar if He didn't. He promised. And that whole deal, forgive seven times seventy times. He told us to forgive over and over."

"So..." and Natalie leans down to get closer to the camera, look Agnes directly in the face. "What right do you have, to not forgive yourself? I mean, isn't there a line in a prayer somewhere...forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us? Aren't we saying, don't forgive us unless we forgive?"

Agnes just stares blankly for a minute. "I hadn't...no, I knew that. I just didn't...apply it. I guess."

Natalie nods. "So we have to forgive, don't we? If we expect it. And that includes us, too, Agnes. Forgiving ourselves."

Agnes stares into space. She feels like a first year catechumen. So obvious. And yet she didn't see it.

"I'll see you in a month," Dr. Summers says. "But I'd recommend getting yourself to confession. I think it will help."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas comes, and Charles and Agnes have a little talk. More things come to light in therapy.

The truth was, Agnes liked Nicolas. Partly because it was obvious that he was very much in love with Angela, and treated her like gold. And partly because he was, in all honestly, a really good man.

Drowning in her own misery, it was easy for Agnes to miss that Angie and Nicolas had managed to have their talk about their future, and a date was set. It was going to be a September wedding, nine months away, leaving plenty of room for planning. Angela doesn’t want the hassle of planning a high profile wedding, so she decides to shop around for a good wedding planner.

But first, Christmas.

Nicolas and Angela are trying very hard not to be too affectionate in front of Agnes, but she knows when they slip away, they're exchanging more than words. However, Nicolas does find time to pull himself away from the love of his life to come and talk to Agnes, hugging her warmly, telling her how sorry he is that’s she’s going through this, etc.

“I’m not going to ask you how you’re holding up, any of that crap,” Nicolas says with his arm around her shoulder. 

“I appreciate that, honestly,” Agnes replies. 

“And I also won’t comment on Tom being an asshole. Although you do realize that requires a lot of tongue biting.”

Agnes shakes her head. “No, he’s not.” But she’s smiling, knowing this is how protective friends are.

Nicolas squeezes her shoulder. “Look, Aggs, I consider you a friend…although I know Angie gets you in the break up. But I know you’ve been having a rough time. And I have to say that I don’t understand how he cheats, but you get the guilt.”

“Well, when you get married, you’ll understand how it works.”

“Here, I’m giving you your Christmas present early.” He hands a long flat present, wrapped in dark red paper that shimmers with holographic designs. “I wrapped it myself. It’s one of my hidden talents, wrapping presents.”

“Are you sure?” Agnes asks, taking it.

“Please. It’s been burning a hole through me for weeks now, I’ve been dying to give it to you.” He chuckles. “Just don’t shred the paper too much.”

Inside it’s an Alphonse Mucha print. Her absolute favorite, which has always been so hard to find, La Trappistine, in which the classic female figure stands tall and stately, pictures from head to toe, with an elaborate halo surrounding her head and shoulders. Her long brown hair hangs down over her white dress, high collared, a bouquet of flowers in her arm and a crown of them on her head, her other hand resting on the object of the advertisement, a bottle of alcohol made by the Trappestine monks. 

It was an incredibly thoughtful present. “Wow, Nic, I’m…I’m amazed. Thank you.” She hugs him, tears in her eyes. 

The last two weeks have been difficult, but Agnes has hit a point where she is just too tired to continue to beat herself up. It was Christmas, there were presents to exchange and meals to plan, and Angela had made sure that she wouldn't be left alone to brood. The four of them -- her, Charles, Angela and Nicolas -- all gathered at Angela's house on Christmas Eve afternoon. Angela and Agnes had spent the morning baking cookies and other sweets, prepping salads and cooking the noodles and sauerkraut that were a staple of Agnes' own Christmas dinners. 

"Do you want to make the trifle for desert?" Angela asks. 

The question grinds everything in Agnes' head to a halt. But she covers, saying that the cookies will be enough. 

An English trifle. Tom had insisted she teach him how to make it, as he was English himself and had never made one in his life. They'd made one in this kitchen, Tom insisting on doing all the heavy lifting, wanting only for Agnes to instruct him. 

It was a good memory. 

///"I can't believe I've never made one of these," Tom said as he cut the pound cake. "Where do you learn?"

"It was my sister," Agnes told him. "She made it one year for Christmas but she didn't want to make it again, but I liked it enough so I said I would, and she told me the recipe came from the internet. So I looked it up and made it. The hardest part is the custard because I use all cream instead of half and half like you're supposed to, so it goes a bit nuts...that's why we need the ice bath."

Tom gave her a wiggling right eyebrow. "Mmm...sounds like me on a Friday night."

Agnes just shook her head. "After that's chopped up, you put it in the bowl, and soak it with the Grand Marnier. And use some simple syrup to moisten the rest."

"As my lady commands," Tom said, getting the alcohol open and pulling the cup of simple syrup from the fridge, where it had cooled after boiling. "How much alcohol?"

"I'm a lush, so I always put more," Agnes said, "but at least a third of a cup."

"Half a cup then," Tom teased. 

"Perfect."

"Should I just put it in here?" Tom asked, ready to put it right in the simple syrup.

"I did that one year and wound up not using all of the simple syrup, so no, you want to make sure all of that goes on the pound cake."

"Ah." Tom tapped his temple with his finger. "Good. How many times have you made it?"

"Maybe half a dozen. I stopped because nobody wanted it anymore. It would get left over and then go to waste. When Angela and I made it, we did it in individual cups for one of her parties, she was the only one who wanted it so I taught her how."

"It was fantastic, your family was obviously crazy," Tom said as he sprinkled. 

Agnes handed him a spatula. "Mix that baby up...but don't go nuts with the simple syrup, you'll have custard and whipped cream in the layers and you don't want it soggy."

The custard bubbled on the stove while Tom made the whipped cream. Admittedly, he got a bit impatient when it seemed to take forever to start to turn solid, but Agnes just smiled at him and assured him she had to call for her father to come help the first time she did it because she was convinced she was doing something wrong. 

"Your dad was the cook in the family?"

"A chemist. Which is kind of like cooking, which is why I always thought he was a bit better at it than my mom. Don't get me wrong, my mom kept us fed, but she didn't have the love for it that he did. Dad always said you have to be a bit crazy and make everything in love for it to taste good. Whenever he said stuff like that I would always wonder who this man was and what he'd done with my real father."

"But he taught you?"

"Both of them. Mom taught me the basics but Dad taught me to experiment. And he knew the chemistry of all this stuff so he knew what to do. That's why the ice bath. We have to cool that custard down--" She broke off, seeing that it was starting to go solid on the stove, but Tom was still dealing with the whipped cream. "Hang on, I'll get it!"

Tom tried to protest but Agnes managed to save the custard. She stirred it and got it into the ice bath, then stepped away as it started to cool. Just then the whipped cream started to turn solid, and Tom gave a victorious little yelp.

Of course, he had to taste it. And somehow it ended up on the tip of his nose, so Agnes had to wipe it away. He showed his gratitude by swiping a streak on her cheek, which he kissed away. 

"Better get to that custard," Agnes said dryly, but she couldn't stop smiling. "It's all knobby -- you gotta make it submit."

"I certainly do," Tom replied with that dark tone in his voice. He gives her that infamous little wink and a salute before scooping up the spatula to do as she commands.///

Agnes is overwhelmed with the urge to call him. To wish him a Merry Christmas. To see if he is at his father's yet, to find out how James is...

She honestly would...but she and Tom had broken the rules before and now...

She just doesn't know what kind of reception she'd get. That's what makes the urge finally go away.

\--------------

Dinner that night was salmon crusted with brown sugar and butter, creating an almost brulee coating on the top, a recipe that came from Alton Brown. Afterwards, they exchanged a few gifts, and loitered about until it was time for Midnight Mass.

So with all these distractions, it's still a bit jarring when Charles finally sits her down, after they've returned from Mass, and Nicolas and Angela are enjoying a private moment on her patio even in the middle of the night, and tells her that she has to stop.

"Let's play Catechism 101," he says lightly. "What are the two great commandments?"

Agnes plays along. "Love God with your whole heart, soul, strength and mind."

"Love how that lawyer slipped 'mind' in there," Charles jokes. "The second?"

"Love your neighbor as you love yourself."

"If a neighbor was treating you like you've been treating yourself, Agnes, you w ouldn't be neighbors for long. It would be considered abusive. You wouldn't have anything to do with him."

"Well, if I could get away from myself, I would." She sips at the warm spiced wine that Angela heated up on the stove after they returned. While it never gets truly cold in California, even at two in the morning, it was still in the forties and thought they could all use some Christmas cheer. 

"And nobody ever thinks about that second part of that commandment. Above loving ourselves." He sits in the recliner next to hers in the small sitting room off from the main living room. It's a miniature library that Angela has kept mostly for show -- she keeps the good books in her bedroom, mostly, but there are still some good ones down here. 

"Fine line with that loving yourself, Charles," she quips. "Aren't all the saints on about thinking they're nothing?"

Charles gives her a distinctive look. "Thinking that you're unworthy is not the same as thinking you're worthless," he says. "Surprised Malcolm hasn't told you that already. The whole point is that we submit ourselves, but hasn't God made it clear enough how much we're worth? It's one thing to be puffed up about ourselves and need to be taken down a peg or two, but it's quite another to hate ourselves. We're not supposed do that. Humble, yes, but St. Teresa of Avila said that humility is truth. It would be a lie to say you're not a gifted writer -- and from tonight's meal, a gifted cook. To not accept those things about yourself would be wrong."

Agnes stares into her wine, letting Charles' words mull about her brain. 

"You remember Walter?"

She looks up. Before she met Tom, while she lived in L.A., hanging out with Charles had introduced her to a myriad of strange people. One of which was Walter, a middle aged man who had very severe Parkinson's disease. He had passed away a few years before Tom came into her life, and she rarely thought of him.

"Yes."

"I know you were never comfortable around him. I know you thought he was creepy--"

"I...tried to be compassionate. But he stared at me a lot and whenever he talked to me I never knew what to say, he'd bring up strange things. And he always wanted me to read his writing but I could hardly understand it. I know, he used that Dragon dictation program, but he couldn't speak clear enough. He said he wanted my honest opinion but even when I tried to give him advice he always acted so hurt. And he had no sense of humor -- he never got our jokes, and that was always so jolting."

Charles smiles during her little diatribe. "And yet you visited him every week when he was finally put into a home."

"Not without you. I tagged along. I didn't have the courage to go myself."

"Well, before the home, when he could speak more clearly, he always told me he thought you were a babe."

I sputtered. "I think I knew that."

"And I know that's one of the reasons you were uncomfortable. But I want you to consider something. If anyone in the world had a reason to be bitter, it was him. He was trapped in a wheelchair, he couldn't communicate with the world, he couldn't express himself, he was pretty much a prisoner in his own mind. He had a heavier cross than either of us, admittedly."

"Yes." Agnes shudders a bit at the memory. In the last weeks before Walter died, he'd barely been able to move. His wife sat at his bedside and did most of his talking for him, as all Walter could do was grunt or moan, his muscles had all gone rigid from the disease, and all Agnes could think of was the horror of being imprisoned in your own body.

"Yet of all the people he was drawn to, he was drawn to you. We don't know, he could have been becoming a saint, in his situation. It was certainly the circumstances for it. He was a devout Catholic, went to Mass whenever he could. Something about you stuck in him. He could see you for someone worth admiration. Attraction. Maybe even love. So what right do you have to reject it? What right do you have to say that any man, especially your own husband, shouldn't see those things in you?"

Agnes sits in stunned silence. A few minutes passes before the waves process through her and she's able to speak again. She didn't have any right. 

"Remember that story Walter told us? About the three sisters and the choir nerd?"

Agnes manages to swallow the lump in her throat. "I think you made half the details up, you could hardly understand Walter when he talked."

"I knew him earlier on, before the disease took away most of his ability to talk," Charles says dismissively. "The three sisters, who always went to the same church. One of them falls in love with a little choir nerd named William. They're going to get married, and at the wedding shower, one of the sisters exclaims that she doesn't understand what her sister sees in William. And the other says that she had a Tabor moment."

Agnes has heard the story, but it doesn't matter to Charles. He likes retelling good ones, as many times as he can. 

"She said love was like the Transfiguration on the Mount," Agnes supplies.

Charles nods. "When someone falls in love, it's like that person is lit up from the inside, just like Jesus was. Not with Divinity, of course, but with something that for some reason, only the other person can see it. Whatever it might be. Oscar Wilde said you fall in love who sings a tune that only your heart can hear. Whatever it is, Tom loves you."

"You never wanted me to marry Tom," Agnes points out.

Charles sighs. "I was afraid because you were afraid. You...weren't happy, Agnes. I mean, you went through the motions, but for some reason, you didn't seem convinced. And over time, that seemed to go away, you seemed to settle into it, seemed to want to push past your fears, but then I'd see you again and you'd be back...to this, quite frankly. And now it's here, this is why I was afraid for you. You can only go through the motions for so long before your heart either has to follow, or you have to stop."

"Maybe I have to stop," she says, finishing the rest of her wine.

"Maybe," Charles says, but she hears the same unconvinced tone in her voice. "I've seen you when you're happy with him, Agnes. I've seen it when you give in and let it be real. Those are the moments I'm glad I'm wrong."

She leans forward, holding her empty glass between her hands, rolling the stem along her palms. "But I can't maintain it," she says. "I mean, look at this...seven years of going back and forth. I can't keep putting Tom through that. It's not fair to him. What happens when I get low, which I will always be at risk of doing, even if Malcolm manages to successfully rehabilitate me. I've had more rough patches than good ones. Tom can only withstand so much."

"So you want to leave him before he wants to leave you?"

She chokes. "I want to leave him...before he sees me the way I see myself."

Charles sighs. "Agnes...I know you've always had battles with self-doubt. We all do, but yours are worse than most. I don't know what happened to give those fears more strength than they did before. But I've known you. I know if you judge yourself by shallow, physical terms, a body is just a body, and you've always believed that. It's just looks, and we've already established your attractiveness to the male sex. And what you are inside does affect how you appear to others. I've heard the word 'sweet' applied to you many times--"

She snorts.

"Well, not when you're like this, no!" Charles slaps his hands against the armrests. "Angela sees it, too. How else did you two become best friends in one afternoon? Humility is truth, Agnes. Embrace the truth about yourself. It isn't what the devil wants you to think." 

\-------------------------

A long time ago, Agnes used to wear a rubber band around her wrist. 

It was an extremely mild form of her version of a hairshirt -- something to keep her mildly uncomfortable. It wasn't the rubber band itself. It was that it was something light and easy to snap against her skin whenever she needed a reminder to stop herself when temptation of the physical kind came -- the tiny sting of what couldn't even honestly be called pain would remind her of the frailty of the flesh.

It wasn't something she told anyone about. She just did it quietly. Mostly she used it when her brain became locked on sensual pleasures -- on sex. The desire for it, the lust for it, the urge for it. 

Marrying Tom hadn't helped sate this urge, but it had allowed her to vent it. Sometimes she worried that there was something wrong with her, how much she thought about it, how much she craved it. There were times when she was ridiculously grateful for how often Tom wanted it, but she also knew that it was just as much her responsibility to initiate it, to make sure he didn't feel like he was begging all the time. It hadn't been easy -- it's a fine line between actually showing someone love and indulging in relieving lust. Sometimes she can't tell the difference. Sometimes she fears there isn't one. Intention seems to be the only deciding factor. 

When she talks about these things to Malcolm, it takes him a few weeks to suggest to her, very gently, that perhaps she and Tom had been overcompensating for their intimacy issues with their sex life.

As much as she wants to argue this point, she can't find a real counterpoint. She always knew that Tom's infidelity hadn't stemmed from a lack of physical satisfaction, or even variety. But most of marriage was...NOT having sex.

"You've started wearing the rubber band again," Malcolm notes. 

"For different reasons, this time," Agnes replies. "If I catch myself...starting to be hateful toward myself. In my head. This will help me stop. Distract me."

Malcolm nods thoughtfully. "I can see that...it might be helpful. But we're going to work on some techniques that might help you figure out which thoughts to consider and which ones to reject."

For the next few weeks, Agnes hears the phrase "negative filtering" so many times she feels like it's become her new name. But it's true -- she knows she has done it, and it is a struggle to see it and stop it. 

Other phrases come as well, like overgeneralization, blaming, black or white thinking, and various others. Malcolm is very specific about each one that she might be doing. He has a list of her statements, things that she's talked about, things that she's written about, and he goes through them one at a time, showing her exactly where she is mis-stepping. 

It's an enlightening process. However, he has to stop her from "catastrophizing" when she hinges again on blaming herself for all the mistake she's made. Truth is, Tom is only a mild part of it. Her problems were already in place before he came along. And however his "Tabor moment" came, it obviously didn't show him how messed up she was. 

Malcolm takes this as yet another opportunity to show her how she is still "negatively filtering." Just because she had issues did not make her unloveable. 

This is taking longer to sink through than she would like. 

The day before she has to face Tom again in another session, Charles sends her a text. He has been doing so, on and off, whenever he sees something that applies to her -- a quote from a saint, about remembering your true place, not your perception of it.

This one is from St. Augustine: “Beware of despairing about yourself; you are commanded to place your trust in God, and not in yourself.” 

She's even more nervous about seeing Tom again this time that she was before Christmas. She's worried he's still angry at her. She is pretty confident that she knows why he walked out on her, but as for his true emotional state, she is unsure.

Tom is already in the room when she connects via videochat. He seems to be somewhat more relaxed, tapping his foot on the floor to some beat only he can hear. But he seems a bit distant. 

"Before we get started," Agnes says, interrupting Dr. Summers as she starts to explain what they're going to focus on that day, "I want to say something to Tom."

Tom turns to look at her, his eyes guarded. Agnes feels it like a kick to her groin, but she pushes forward.

"I'm sorry about what I said before, Tom," she manages. "It was wrong and I am sorry."

Tom considers her. Dr. Summers, very wisely, intervenes. "Do you know why it was wrong, Agnes?"

"Because saying something like that...that there isn't any reason to love me...it discounts Tom's feelings. It...belittles them. Telling someone that something or someone they care about is worthless is wrong. I wouldn't do it if I was talking about one of his favorite movies or songs or anything else for that matter. I certainly shouldn't apply it to myself."

There is just the barest hint of a smile in Tom's eyes now. She has to turn away from that tender look or she's going to start crying. 

"This is probably a good place to start," Dr. Summers says. "Tom, would you like to tell Agnes why exactly what she said upset you?"

"She already apologized--" Tom starts.

"I know, and that was a good thing, but we have to be clear. Or else it will happen again. I know you've been talking to Dr. McGregor, and you discussed this at length."

Tom doesn't want to say whatever Dr. Summers is trying to get him to say. She can tell by how his body is starting to twitch, from his fingers to his knees and how he can't seem to look at her.

"Tom, this is part of the problem," Dr. Summers presses. "Your unwillingness to confront has helped grow this into the situation it's become. You wouldn't talk to Agnes when you started to experience feelings for Diana so that you two could have dealt more effectively with the rift in your marriage."

Agnes remembers their argument when she pretty much told him the same thing. "You told me I was fragile." *Fucking fragile* were his exact words but she doesn't want to antagonize him at all.

"And you're not?"

"Tom, please, whatever Dr. Summers is trying to get you to admit can't be any worse than the things I've said to myself."

"Which is why I don't want to say them," Tom says. 

"Please, Tom," she says.

Tom draws a heavy breath. "I don't want to make things worse for you than you already make them for yourself," Tom says. "And...it is like that, what you said before. You would never put down a song or a movie that I liked, let alone another human being, so it isn't okay for you to put down yourself. But when you do, it's almost like...it's like you think you're taking responsibility but you really aren't."

"I'm...not?" She asked him to tell her. She reminds herself to be patient and wait until he's done.

"No. I mean, I'm not saying you even know you're doing it. But I've started to see how it actually makes us both avoid the real things going on. I saw you do it a lot before we were married, you'd get flustered or make a mistake and laugh it off and call yourself stupid -- which I hated, by the by. It's an excuse. You're not stupid. If you were it would be a lot easier for you, but you aren't. By saying you're stupid it's an excuse for not acting smart. And you aren't unloveable, but by saying you are you seem to avoid having to take any responsibility for the love you do have, the love others have given you -- the love I'VE given you!" He looks at Dr. Summers. "I don't even know if this makes sense."

"It makes sense, but take a moment..." Dr. Summers was carefully watching Agnes the whole time. How her cheeks turned bright red, and her breathing quickened. "How are you, Agnes?"

"A bit...shocked," Agnes admits, desperately trying not to lose her shit. 

"Do you understand what Tom is trying to say? When you discount yourself, you might be under the impression that you're not important, when in actuality, you are very important, and you have responsibilities. Not just to Tom, but to yourself. Tom is watching the way you treat yourself and dismiss it, but this frustrates him because it eventually becomes a cop out. A way of not dealing with truly difficult truths and situations that affect not just your marriage, Agnes, but your entire psyche."

"And the reason I don't say anything is because I'm afraid anything I say will be taken as me just dog-piling it on top of whatever crap you feel you're buried under, and I'll be part of the problem instead of the solution! When all I want to do, Aggie, is have you take my hand and let me pull you out from under it."

Aggie...she hasn't heard that name in over two months. It slices through her insides. 

"And while that is a good desire, Agnes has to do her own part," Dr. Summers points out. "You can't do it for her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, confession time: this story has hit a wall. I've had nothing since right before Easter. So either I slow my updates to every two weeks instead of every week, or else there's going to be chapter 21 and then nothing until I can figure it out. I'm thinking every two weeks. I just need time because everything is so complicated and working through it takes an enormous amount of concentration. But I want to finish this! And I want them both to be happy -- together or apart! Which even I don't know which way it's going to go. Agnes is not cooperating. Quite frankly neither is Tom. >>


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing the therapy session from Chapter 18 -- a few more breakthroughs for Agnes.

Tom leans back into the couch. He seems both relieved and apprehensive at the same time.

"So," Agnes says, trying to process, "when I put myself down, I'm actually avoiding responsibility for real issues. That's what you see."

"Not consciously," Dr. Summers says. "But it could be a bit like how people will put themselves down, believing that if they do so, others will contradict them. Instead of taking constructive steps, which are admittedly very difficult, this is a quicker way to find relief, but ultimately not constructive."

"Relief?" Agnes barks. "You think I feel relief, being this way?"

"Not in the sense you mean. But by retreating into self-abuse, you avoid responsibility, which could be more painful for you than whatever abuse you inflict on yourself," Dr. Summers says, not backing down. "Hence, why Tom couldn't tell you about Diana. How would you have reacted if he had come to you and told you about his feelings for her?"

Agnes struggles with her breathing. "I would have been upset, obviously," she bites out.

"Tom, did you consider telling her at any point? Did you consider her reaction?"

Tom shakes his head. "I was concentrating more on not feeling the way I did, once I realized what was happening. There was only one time, when I almost told Diana, but when she made it clear to me that it would be a mistake, I redoubled my resolution to ride it out."

"But obviously you didn't want to. What reaction were you sure you would receive?"

Tom shakes his head again. "I couldn't...begin..."

"Try."

He looks down at his hands. "Quite possibly the same reaction that happened when you discovered what was going on with Clare," he says to Agnes.

"I had to find that one out on my own," Agnes says, feeling a sudden rush of anger at the memory. 

Tom flinches. "I know."

"Put that aside a moment, Agnes," Dr. Summers cautions. "I know it's still painful, but we have to finish working through this. What might you have said if Tom had told you about his feelings for Diana?"

Possibly being picked apart into raw little pieces these last two months is what enables Agnes to answer somewhat honestly. "I probably would have been devastated that my husband wanted someone else more than me. I would probably have...retreated."

"Retreated?"

"Not spoken to him. Shut him out. Possibly walked out. I deal with jealousy by shutting down."

"Would you say that self-pity would be a part of this process?"

How she *hates* those words, *self-pity.* "Unfortunately, yes."

"Would you have been willing to talk to him about why he had feelings for someone else? Maybe attempt to discover what it was about this new person that drew him, and see where perhaps you might work with him to improve your own relationship?"

"That would have been too healthy," Agnes says, sarcasm getting the better of her. But she knows, even through the pain, that it would have been the right thing to do. It would have been a chance to step above her own pain and offer up the suffering in the process of fixing it. But she would have been resentful. 

"It would not have been easy. Would you have considered counseling then? To help? Either of you?"

"Agnes," Tom says, momentarily putting aside Dr. Summers' question, "I didn't want her more than I wanted you. I thought I had explained it to you before. It had been a while since I'd ever had feelings for anyone other than you, and at first I didn't recognize what was happening until they'd gotten a bit stronger. I was tempted to act on them. I admit that. But I didn't, which is why I didn't realize that it was a kind of unfaithfulness, until recently."

Agnes is suddenly exhausted. But they've only been at this for twenty-odd minutes or so, so she doubts there is any way to end it prematurely. 

"Tom, do you think that, in spite of Agnes' justifiable anger, you might have been able to seek help, like you did this time? If you had told her?"

"I realize now, yes, I could have."

"The point is, regardless of how Agnes reacts to what you say, it doesn't absolve you from trying to say it, for the sake of your marriage. If you want to maintain it," Dr. Summers stresses. "Agnes, is there anything you want to say?"

She takes a long pause before the right words come. "Tom, I wish I could have been a more confident, understanding wife. I realize that ultimately we wound up in the same place, didn't we?"

"Maybe we wouldn't be on different continents," Tom points out.

She nods. "True. But...I am trying to change my thinking. But I can't promise you that I'll always react to you the way you want me to. I'm not like you, I don't see every problem as an opportunity, I don't just get excited instead of being afraid -- I am afraid a lot. *A. Lot.*"

"I know that you won't...Agnes, I'm not asking you to be perfect, to conform to my ideals. And I want you to let me help you when you're afraid, I want...I want what I say and what I think to be important to you."

"You don't think it is?" she asks, her voice very small. She said these things to him, she knows she has, but hearing it coming from him this time...it's like she never heard it before.

"I don't feel like I have any real...influence on you. Maybe those aren't the same things."

"No...influence?" For a moment, Agnes' brain is torn straight down the middle. 

One side completely understands what Tom is saying. That side reasonably sees how her rejection of his repeated efforts to help her feel better about herself, his unwavering support and affection (outside of his infidelities), his continuous encouragement of everything she ever did in the face of her stubborn maintenance of her low self-opinion and self-doubt could be seen, by him, as having no real influence on her. She has openly admitted this. To him. It was one of the last face-to-face conversations they had.

The other half can only see how she feels like she has moved her life, her world, everything important to her, to make this man happy, to support him when he's with her and sacrifice him when he's away, to adjust herself to having to deal with things like the invasion of their privacy his fame brings, the judgment of people she would never have to subject herself to if not for him. Yet he says he feels that she doesn't let him have any influence on her. And that is just plain insane. 

Both sides tug on her consciousness. The equal pull causes her to place her hands over her eyes and rest her elbows on her knees.

"Agnes?" Dr. Summers' voice is distant, but alarmed. It takes a few more seconds for Agnes to speak. 

"No. I'm here." A few seconds more and she's able to lower her hands. She doesn't look at Tom. "I'm just..."

Tom's voice comes back, faint. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No, Tom, you have to be honest," Dr. Summers assures him. "Some things are difficult to hear."

So Natalie agrees with him. Agnes barks a sound that could be laughter but isn't quite. 

"Agnes, I'm sorry...but do you have any idea how frustrating it is to love someone who is utterly blind to every good thing about her no matter how hard I try to point it out?"

It's so easy to become bitter in this moment. "I'm sorry to have been such a burden to --"

"No, see, that's exactly what I mean!" Tom's voice shoots up in volume, but it isn't angry. "That is exactly it, Agnes! What you did right there!"

She swallows hard against the sob in her throat. 

"Agnes, I love you so much." She realizes he's moved closer to the screen. "And sometimes, when you're good, when we're good, it's like none of the difficult times existed. But when you turn on yourself, I feel absolutely helpless. I would never have characterized you as stubborn, but you get in these headspaces and nothing can drag you out! And I can't live like that...I can't let you hurt the person I love, especially if it's you! And I've been a coward -- a horrible coward, I'm starting to see that. I want to be better. Do you want to be better?"

"Of course I do!" she blasts him, but he doesn't back off or get angry. "I don't know if I can! Tom, I may be good for a while, but what's going to happen when it comes again?"

"That's why we're here, to learn what to do," Tom says. "If we have to, we'll come back."

"You can't promise me not to be afraid any longer, any more than I can promise not to shut you out," Agnes says. "Those are promises we'll break."

Tom's face falls. 

"So because you're afraid of failure, you won't try?" Dr. Summers says. "That doesn't sound like the motto of a successful author or actor."

"I was a different person then," Agnes murmurs.

"You're the same person," Tom counters. "More, not less. I know this spiral is my doing -- I know all of this is coming on you because of my actions, and I have to live with that. But the foundation was already there, Agnes. This same pattern of behavior isn't working, and your favorite quote from Einstein was the one about how repeating the same thing over and over and expecting a different result was insanity. We have to learn something different. You were always of such a strong faith -- don't you have any faith in your faith? In God to make the seemingly impossible happen?"

Agnes realizes tears have been sliding down her cheeks. She wipes them away, along with the few that have slid along her jaw. 

Her phone suddenly buzzes. She sees it's a text. From Charles. It says, plainly:

{St. John of God: “When you feel depressed, have recourse to the Passion of Jesus Christ, our Lord, and his precious wounds, and you will feel great consolation.”} 

So she's been wounded. She can take the blow. She draws a breathe and the words on her phone are a balm, in the face of what Tom has said. 

"I need to work on it, that's true," she says. 

"Admitting it is important," Dr. Summers says. "Agnes, we're not ganging up on you. But you need a push and those who love you are willing to give it to you."

Agnes draws a breath. This is something she's talked about with Malcolm. "When I was single, before Tom...I had these things to deal with. But they didn't...press in the same way. I mean, I didn't have to worry much about it affected other people. Most of the time I could put on a brave face and fake it sometimes, if I had to, until I started to feel better. But...Tom..." she dares to look at him, sees him watching her, his face so full of love and compassion it almost hurts to notice it, "I have to admit, it's been harder since we got married. I mean, maybe to a certain extent it's the exposure, I considered that."

"You had your own fame before we married," Tom points out.

"Not like yours," she says with a bit of a rueful grin. "And it was hard to deal with. I mean, I wrote stories, I could hide behind my books, but with you I had to deal with being judged for my appearance, something I'd never...tolerated before."

Tom looks away. He knows, and she's aware of it, how much his popularity has put pressure on her. But he tried, a long time ago, to reassure her...

"Tom, you promised me once you'd be the voice in my head. And we talked about that...about how I...stopped listening. And I have to ask myself why, why I stopped. I didn't mean to do it, but I've been talking to Malcolm and I think...I think it was laziness. I mean, it was just easier not to listen. You know me, I've always been like that. You're the active one, going for runs, table tennis, yoga, keeping yourself in shape, and for me it's a Herculean effort to even do my cardio every day. And sometimes I can get going but then I lapse again..."

"It's normal behavior," Dr. Summers says. "Discipline isn't easy for everyone to achieve."

"I can't even remember to wash out my ears or put on lotion at night," Agnes grumbles.

"Agnes, I don't know if you realize this," Tom says, looking mildly bashful, "but...I actually always liked that I had to help you remember those things. I mean, it made me feel like you needed me."

"But this is too much," Agnes says. "This is too much to ask you. I have to do it, it has to come from me. You can't make me listen. You grew tired of it, stopped trying, and this isn't something...(she wants to say trivial, but the word feels like it would be insulting) minor. It's like doing my spiritual reading, going to Mass every day, it's something that has to come from inside me. And I know being afraid of failure isn't an excuse for not trying...but..."

She can't say it. The words rise like bile but she can't speak them.

Because to tell Tom he might be a cause...a reason why she can't stay disciplined. He's a distraction, an added effort, a...

No, those things are wrong. A husband isn't supposed to be those things. A husband is supposed to be a partner.

At her long pause, Dr. Summers intervenes. "What's important to remember is that marriage is not just making room for another person in your life. The relationship is unique. Which is why we have such a high divorce rate -- no one is willing to make that sacrifice of self for another person. The biblical saying goes, 'Two become one flesh.' Agnes, you said a long time ago that you didn't want a marriage like your parents, where it seemed like they had lost all sense of personal identity. Or at least your mother did. Did you realize that was her choice?"

"My father told me a long time ago," Agnes says, "that marriage was the closest state a human being could come to the relationship between the Blessed Trinity. I never quite got that."

"Because none of us can understand the Blessed Trinity," Tom remarks. The words cause Agnes to stare at him a moment.

"It's because it's a state of such unity...I never got that before, with my parents. Everyone always told me you can't understand someone's marriage, and that's why, isn't it? Because they're supposed to be so unified that it's almost like they are the same person. And in our current age of self-identity, nobody gets that. That's why everyone gets divorced."

The whole room falls silent as they all struggle to absorb the concept. Even Dr. Summers is frowning lightly.

"Tom, please don't get angry at me," Agnes says, leaning closer to the screen. "I said to you a long time ago that I was worried our marriage was a mistake. I know I hurt you enormously when I said that. But I still keep thinking about it, and we have to consider the real possibility that we can't do this."

Tom looks away. His eyes are glowing with tears but they don't fall. But to his credit, he doesn't become angry.

"I don't know if I can do this," Agnes says, possibly with more honesty than she's ever felt in her life. "I don't know if I can be a wife the way I'm supposed to be a wife. I don't know if I can make room in myself, if I can give that much of myself...especially when I'm not even secure with myself! It isn't that I don't love you, I love you more than anything, more than myself..."

"Do you?" Tom asks very softly, turning his eyes back to her.

It stops her. 

"I know you think your low-self image means you don't love yourself," he says, so very calm. "But Agnes, truly, if you did love me more than you loved yourself, you would be willing to sacrifice anything for me. I know this because I've been talking to Dr. McGregor about this, and the same thing is true for me. If I loved you as much as I thought I did, as much as I think I do, I would be willing to give up anything you asked. An opportunity I desperately wanted. My whole career if that's what it took. I know now that I haven't done any of that. I haven't loved you like I should love you, as truly being married demands I love you. I want a chance. I want a chance to really do what we're supposed to do. Do you?"

She knows she would never ask him to give up any of those things...but she also knows that Tom has been asking her, all these years, to give up her own opinion of herself in favor of his. And she hasn't. She's clung to it, stubbornly. 

In that moment, she understands.

"I honestly don't know." Her cheeks are surprisingly dry, and her heart is calm. Yet she's never been more terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I want to give a special thanks to my readers, most especially to my commentators, Loyal Reader, GoldDust, Talia, and Silvaren, who have continued to read my crap although I've been a crappy responder this last month or so. I get your reviews when I'm at work and I mean to go back and reply later but when I sit down I've been too exhausted to remember what it was I wanted to say. But yes, Agnes is making progress. And I had a lovely breakthrough and managed to get out another chapter, so if I can go back to weekly updates, I will! So please don't stop leaving comments, I WILL reply this time, I swear. I personally get annoyed when I take time to comment on a fic and the writer doesn't reply to my comment. Especially if they have in the past and then don't do so two times IN A ROW, which is what I've done. So I am sorry. I love all of you! Your support has helped so much, I never thought people would be interested in a story like this especially considering it comes from my point of view, which is centered in my beliefs, in which I grow stronger every day. My eighth graders graduate in a month or so (who are NO PICNIC since they're all checked out since they're all off to high school soon) and then comes summer and I will have more time to write -- God willing! But I WILL CONTINUE! I've invested far too much into this story to let it hang. So once again, thank you, I love you, God bless you, please continue to yell at me/Agnes/Tom about all the crap they are putting you through.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another painful therapy session.

Dr. Summers tells them that she wants to meet with them again in two weeks. Not a month. At that point, they will begin discussing the next step of the separation. 

She does not go into much detail about what they are to consider. She says that she will leave that for the next session.

More work with Dr. Malcolm makes Agnes feel, little by little, that she’s starting to get better. She’s starting to get a grip on herself.

Truthfully, the medication kicked in and had started lifting the depression a few weeks ago, but the confrontation at the last session with Dr. Summers leaves Agnes feeling shaky and unsure again. She has a routine now – get up in the morning before 9 a.m., exercise. This usually involves something in Angela’s personal training room. A late breakfast, and reading until she goes to Mass at noon and usually winds up at the church until around 1:30 or so. On the days she has therapy, this is the time she goes to see Malcolm. On the days she doesn’t, she talks to her agent, or a friend, or goes shopping with Angie – it varies, depending on the day. By the evening, she cooks something like she used to when she lived at Angela’s house, and then in the evening, the ideas start to come and she fiddles on the laptop.

It’s more than fiddling. Agnes slowly feels like she has a novel starting to develop. 

The two weeks are on fast forward. Tom’s birthday is coming, and Valentine’s Day is after that, and Agnes feels like she wants to dig her heels into the ground like a mule and keep from going forward. She wants to stay at her desk and poke at the keys. It’s the beginning of the relationship, when the two lovers want to be around each other all the time – that is how it usually feels to Agnes when she feels a new novel starting to grow. 

She has a synopsis that she sent to her agent, as is a habit by now; five stories, intertwined:

About a publisher, a bitter woman whose heart was broken years ago by the love of her life, only to have him return with an explanation that could be many years too late.

About the writer, divorced for five years, who refuses to move on, whose director ex-husband wants the rights to her latest book.

About the actress, lead in the movie adaptation, who is having an affair with a married man, who can no longer live with herself.

About the actress’ best friend, who years ago put an end to the advances of a leading man, who might actually be in love with her.

And the fantasy novel that connects all their lives.

Agnes knows, as she always does, that these are all about her. No, the characters aren’t her, she learns quickly how they separate from her, but in the incubation states, she’s using a lot of her own pain to develop the character’s stories.

The publisher is who she is afraid of becoming, and the writer is someone she might soon be. The actress is Agnes’ way of trying to understand the other side of her situation, the women Tom has used when she failed to be enough (hopefully Angie will forgive her using her profession). And the best friend is her, many years ago, when Tom came into her life, and she tried to avoid him – trying to see the path not taken, and if she really should have taken it. 

The fantasy novel is a different story. Joan of Arc meets A Canticle for Lebowitz. Something she’s wanted to do for a long time, but Agnes has never been a creator of fantasy worlds, so she needs a frame for it – a story within a story. The heroine will be the Joan of Arc character, who will stay pure in the face of all adversity. 

“Dr. Summers is concerned about you,” Malcolm tells her a few days before she has to see Tom again in their early session. “She thinks you might have felt attacked in the last session. That there was a lot of pressure on you.”

“Well, it was highly enlightening,” Agnes says dryly. “But we’ve already gone over this.”

“I wanted to prepare you, though. She says this next session is going to focus on the infidelity. She says that Tom has been doing his part to figure out why he is struggling with staying faithful. And don’t start.”

“Start what?” It’s just pure instinct, to react with those words. Agnes knows the answer.

“You are responsible for the state of your marriage, Agnes, but you are not responsible for Tom’s infidelity.” She’s heard this before, but they keep saying it. Maybe eventually it will sink in. 

“How are they different?” she asks, frustrated. “The state is my marriage is what caused Tom to stray!”

“Tom is a free man, capable of choice,” Malcolm says. “You didn’t make him do anything. He had alternatives. He has alternatives. He didn’t choose any of them. I could name five of them that would not have resulted in him betraying you. Now, I’m not telling you this to make you angry. I’m not telling you this to make you feel justified. I’m simply stating facts that you have to accept. And if you wish to stay married to Tom, you have to process that hurt, that wound, and allow him to do what is necessary to make amends, even if you feel guilt.”

“What if I don’t want to stay married?” the words slip from her mouth. 

“Then we need to discuss that. Even if you don’t wish to continue your marriage, it is necessary, for your own mental health, for you to forgive him for what’s he’s done. Not to blame yourself and tell yourself you deserved it.” He pauses, considering her. “Why would you not wish to continue your marriage, Agnes? Can you give me reasons that aren’t going through your negative filter?”

She glances toward the pad of paper at her side that’s been a constant fixture for the last six weeks. But she doesn’t feel the urge to pick it up yet. “If Tom and I stay together, I have legitimate concerns that he will stray again. Not because he doesn’t love me, but because something in our relationship is unsatisfying. Reasonable, yes?”

Malcolm nods. “Are you discounting the fact that all of this therapy is to help prevent that from happening again?”

“No, I’m trying not to.” She struggles with that twitchy feeling in her stomach. “But, honestly. That night he came to me, he was fighting off going to see Regina, who I know wanted to fuck him. And he was tempted, because of what was going on with us. Before he couldn’t have cared less about her, and then we split and suddenly he wants to.”

“Well, you have to consider it this way. Tom might, and this isn’t proven yet, have an issue that he will always have to deal with. Alcoholics are always going to want a drink. This doesn’t mean they can’t be successful sober, this doesn’t mean that they HAVE to drink. They can overcome. You don’t believe Tom can overcome?”

“I don’t know if I can live with the thought that he has to overcome anything in order to be happy with me.” She pauses. “Is that catastrophic thinking? Wanting to scrap the whole thing because one thing doesn’t work?”

Malcolm is silent for several long seconds. “It’s legitimate, I think,” he says slowly. “You didn’t know this about him when you first married him. It developed over the years you were together, and he had no history of infidelity before you two were together?”

“He never told me about anything, and I never heard anything. I think he would have told me. Or I hope. I mean, I’m second guessing everything. He could have withheld it in his effort to convince me to be with him, worried I never would if I even suspected…”

“You can’t do that to yourself. It’s reasonable to think that in all the therapy you’ve been in, it would have come out, so those fears are attributable to anxiety.”

“Okay, so if he never had this issue, he developed it with me. What if I can’t live with that? What if I can’t live with that change in him? Regardless of how he overcomes it, I’m going to know it’s there. And I’m going to have bad days, and when I have bad days, do I have to worry about him falling off the wagon too? You compared it to alcoholism before – aren’t we both like that? If two alcoholics were trying to overcome, would being together be the best thing for them?”

Malcolm shrugs. “Then ultimately, it comes down to your will, Agnes. It sounds like you’ve reasoned this out, tried to abstain from emotional thinking. I still think you should wait to make your final call until you get a few more sessions in, and I think you need to address this point blank with Dr. Summers and Tom. At the right time. Dr. Summers is planning to address the infidelity issue at the next session, it might be the right time to bring it up, it might not. You are going to have to see – but remember, if you feel yourself overcome by the emotion, start to write down facts vs. feelings. Keep the pad close. It will help.”

\-------------

"Okay, so you've both been prepared for today," Dr. Summers says once they're settled.

They had both come in at the same time, surprisingly. Agnes saw Tom enter the room over Dr. Summers' shoulder, and watched as he settled in on the couch where both of them used to sit. His legs are crossed -- Agnes knows Tom well enough to see it as a sign of anxiety. Tom when he was relaxed let his knees splay wide. But he is tense, and she can't blame him.

"Prepared," the word Dr. Summers uses. "Braced" is more accurate, for Agnes doesn't think it's possible to be prepared for the pain this conversation is going to cause. And she is so very tired of the pain.

"I want to start with Regina," Dr. Summers says, seeming to be braced herself for what's to come. "Tom, Agnes made it clear when she met your co-star that she didn't want you to be around her, alone. How did you feel about that?"

Tom seems mildly surprised with how Dr. Summers wants to play this out, but he doesn't fight it. "I felt it was perfectly reasonable. It hurt that she didn't trust me, but I didn't deserve her trust. I wanted to show her she could trust me again, and I was eager to prove it, so it wasn't an issue. I didn't have a problem with it."

Dr. Summers nods. "So that night, when you went to see Agnes, and you told her that Regina had been, I think the proper expression is 'sniffing around,' why did you bring that up?"

Tom hesitates before answering. It's not a secret to Agnes, but it's not been blatantly discussed. "I...was looking for support. She had asked something from me and I wanted her to know that I was still honoring it, but it was getting difficult."

"Why?"

Tom seems a big flummoxed by the word. "Why was it difficult?"

"Were you attracted to Regina?"

Tom lets out a deep sigh. "She's an attractive person. Physically. Yes, I noticed her." He looks down at his hands. His guilt ticks are still the same.

"Did you want to have sex with her?"

Agnes feels a bit of a stab as Tom scowls upon looking up again. "No," he says.

"Then why was it difficult to honor the promise you made to Agnes?"

Another heavy sigh. "She was being persistent. The whole 'good friend' seduction angle."

"But if you weren't interested, what difference did that make?"

Now he slinks a bit. "Agnes and I had been separated for a month. I was depressed and lonely. Her attention was...it was starting to feel good. I knew that was a bad thing, that's why I tried to fix things with Agnes one more time."

"So you were fighting an urge, then," Dr. Summers says.

Tom slowly nods, eyes averted. 

"You were feeling tempted. Agnes, you picked up on this?"

"Yes." Agnes hears her dry, cracked voice. 

"We've pinpointed that when you, Tom, became interested in Diana, the incident with Agnes just having a suspected miscarriage and the subsequent conclusion that you might not ever have any children had just happened. This was a bit of a falling out between you two, yes?"

Both nod. 

"And then when the affair with Clare happened, there was the incident with the photo -- yes?"

"You're saying there's a pattern," Tom says. "Dr. McGregor and I have discussed this."

"And is there?" Dr. Summers asks. "The point I'm trying to make is that you two are going to have ups and downs like this in your relationship. There is no guarantee, even after you've completed therapy, that there won't be another crisis. Agnes, are you trepidatious about returning to a marriage where your husband's continued fidelity is in question?"

"Yes," Agnes says again after clearing her throat. 

Tom looks a bit stricken. "Still?"

She can only nod. 

"Agnes is blaming herself for your infidelities, Tom," Dr. Summers says. "At least that is the conclusion that Malcolm has come to."

"I thought we'd been over this," Tom groans.

Agnes feels she should say something. She feels she has barely contributed to this conversation, and yet she is a pivotal part of it. 

"Malcolm's been trying to make me see that Tom made his own choices," she points out. "That he had other options rather than cheating."

A dark look settles over Tom's face. Agnes doesn't quite know what to make of it. 

"We've already determined that your sex life," Dr. Summers' says, making a circling gesture to include both of them, "was far from unsatisfactory. In fact, it was borderline excessive. You two were both rather uninhibited when it came to each other. So it doesn't follow that a man in that position would cheat unless there was something emotional or psychological that was being unfulfilled by your sex life. So Tom, I have to ask -- what does sex mean to you?"

Agnes is startled by the question, but Tom doesn't seem to be. "You know I've talked to Dr. McGregor about this, as well," he says.

Dr. Summers nods. "But it's something we all need to discuss, for the sake of your marriage. When you make love with your wife, Tom, what is missing?"

Tom draws a heavy breath, his chest expanding, and he holds it for a moment. "When Agnes and I make love," he says, and his eyes roll upwards, as if searching in the air for the right words. His hand extends, a thinking gesture when he's trying to express something and he doesn't quite know how, "it's the only time that I feel...she listens to me."

Agnes scowls. "Listens?"

Tom finally turns his eyes to her. They are bright -- with memories, or with feeling, or with something else altogether, she isn't sure. "Agnes, we've already talked about how you stopped listening to me, when I try to reassure you of all your insecurities. But when we're together, when we touch each other, I feel it's the only time you actually hear me. Maybe that's why we're 'borderline excessive,'" complete with air quotes, with a slightly snarky look at Dr. Summers, "because I was, or we were, overcompensating."

"That's been suggested as well," Dr. Summers concedes. "But physical love without emotion behind it is dangerous."

"There's emotion!" Agnes protests. "He just said I listen."

"You listen, but do you respond?" Dr. Summers asks. "I've always found it curious how you can be so insecure, Agnes, about everyday things, but as sexually adventurous as you two have made you out to be. Usually that kind of insecurity extends to physical intimacy. So what is different when you're together?"

Agnes shrugs. "Tom said it. He's very expressive. Physically expressive. I don't...I don't get much time to think about things...so I just go with what I feel."

"And what do y0u feel, Agnes?" Dr. Summers looks sympathetic. "I know it's hard to say, I know you are very private about your bedroom activities, but for the sake of the success of this session, I have to ask you to tell us."

Agnes struggles with her thoughts. Whenever Tom made love to her, even from that first time, she always gave herself over to physical sensation. Pleasure seemed to overrule everything else. She just went with it.

"Agnes?" Tom asks, and he seems a bit anxious about her answer.

She shrugs. "I just feel how much you love me," she says. "I just let myself go with the physical sensations. It's a time not to think when all I ever do is overthink everything."

Tom nods, but Dr. Summers is not quite satisfied. "So Tom is physically showing his love. Are you accepting it? Or are you simply experiencing physical pleasure?"

"I..." She pauses, shakes her head. "It's hard to answer that. I mean, it's hard to know precisely what I'm thinking when I make love with Tom. I usually...don't think, like I said."

"But emotionally, what do you feel? Do you feel love? Acceptance? Joy?"

Agnes struggles with her thoughts. "I...I feel good. That's the best I can do."

"What about the other way? Do you show your love for Tom?"

"Of course!"

"Tom?"

Tom hesitates again. Agnes feels her stomach drop. "Agnes likes to be in control, sometimes," he says. 

"Not surprising, no harm in that," Dr. Summers says.

"When you are, Agnes," Tom says gently, "you can be a bit...rough."

It is a punch to the gut. "You never said anything."

"It never bothered me. I never thought about it before now. And there was never anything wrong with it. But sometimes, I wondered if you were just...pushing through things, rather than feeling your way through them. Venting, rather than expressing."

Agnes shrinks. It is possibly the most utterly embarrassing moment of her life.

Both Dr. Summers and Tom see the change in her demeanor instantly. "Agnes, are you okay?"

She literally cannot answer. Her voice doesn't work. She stands up, and just barely stops herself from slamming the lid down on her laptop. Instead, she leaves the room and goes downstairs toward the fridge, where there is a pitcher of very cold lemonade waiting. She pours herself a glass and gulps it down hard, then stands there, panting. She pours another class and sips it a bit slower.

Tom has been loving her. And apparently she hasn't been loving him back. He's making love, and she's having sex. 

Agnes circles around the kitchen island, forcing herself to breathe. 

Has she been going through the motions while holding back her heart? Because she's afraid of it. Or *for* it, afraid of it being hurt. She's so terrified that even now, she holds it back. She feels but it doesn't come out.

The last piece slides into place. And she teeters on the edge of the biggest decision of her life.

Slowly, she makes her way back to the room, back to the lap top where her seat is still warm. The lemonade is still clutched in her hand. Both Dr. Summers and Tom are worried, their voices raised in pitch, asking her questions she can't answer. She just sits back down and nods automatically when they ask if she's okay.

Neither one believes her, but there is nothing they can do.

"Agnes, we are not attacking you," Dr. Summers reassures her. "You've endured a lot these past months and I know that you've made tremendous progress with Malcolm. You aren't being blamed. You aren't even doing any of this on purpose. But you and Tom need to communicate these things to each other. Overcompensation in a sexual relationship isn't unheard of. But you have to understand why, or else nothing will improve between you two. I simply want you two to talk to each other, and say what you're thinking, how you're perceiving each other."

Agnes just nods again, numb.

"Tom, Dr. McGregor has told you that by choosing to turn to meaningless sex and remove all emotion from it, you are escaping from the issues in your marriage," Dr. Summers tells him. "But understandably, Agnes feels that these issues have been created by her, because you never had any history of infidelity before the last four years. This is something she has discussed with Malcolm."

Tom nods. He's heard this before, Agnes can tell. But still the lines show on his face. 

"Not the first time," Agnes says, finally finding her voice.

"What?" Tom asks.

"The first time, with Diana. It was emotional," Agnes points out. "Clare was meaningless sex, true. And...Regina would have been the same. But not Diana."

"That is a good point," Dr. Summers murmurs. 

"But that was nothing--" Tom protests.

"Just because it didn't turn into sex didn't mean it was nothing," Dr. Summers says. "In fact, it's possibly even more significant."

"You could have replaced me, if you'd wanted," Agnes says. "Why didn't you?"

"Because you aren't replaceable, Agnes," Tom says, his calm forced.

"//She// pushed //you// away, Tom, because she saw it, better than you did. You said you approached her, to talk about it, I remember what you told me in that restaurant. You said you tried to talk to her but she shut you down. She was the one who saw you were more devoted to me -- SHE saw it, Tom. You said you realized she was right, but she was the one who did it. //Not you.//"

"That's not fair," Tom chokes.

"But do you see why Agnes is afraid, Tom?" Dr. Summers says gently. "Why she's having a hard time putting her trust in you again? Because she doesn't know for sure if a bad day on her part is going to mean infidelity on your part. Ultimately, you two have to change how you react to each other. And that is an extremely difficult thing."

All three sit in silence for a few moments. "So what do we do?" Tom asks quietly.

"You've been doing it," Dr. Summers points out. "But you have to do it, unsupervised, and without it deteriorating into drama or hysterics. Which is why you've been separated, so you could get to that point." She turns and looks at Agnes. "But I have a feeling that Agnes isn't quite ready, based on her reaction before."

"My leaving the room?" Agnes asks, sipping her lemonade. 

"I think the separation should continue, for at least another month," Dr. Summers says, "but I also think that the two of you need to get to know one another again. So I'm going to lift the communication ban. While you're still in two countries, you won't be in each other's presence for a while, but you can communicate through texts, emails, even the occasional phone call. It's vitally important, however, that you keep the intensity level dialed way down. WAY down," she stresses. "Do you think you can do that?"

"I will," he says, and turns to Agnes, eyes bright and eager. "I promise, Agnes."

She nods, still feeling numb. 

"Not right now," Dr. Summers says, anticipating the look on Tom's face. "Next week, at the earliest. The both of you need time to process today without interference."

Both agree. Next week, Agnes realizes, she's going to be allowed to talk to Tom again.

She has no idea how she feels about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Thank you so much for your messages and support. I wouldn't be able to continue this story without them. It is painful and frustrating and right now I am struggling with turning it in the direction I want it to go, but the characters have their own ideas and I find it best not to fight them. If you think you're frustrated reading it, image me writing it! but I shall try to go back to weekly updates. A few more chapters of this slogging to go and then we're going to get some massive action. Brace yourselves!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even at the cusp of a decision, Agnes gets some advice from an unexpected source.

On precisely the day that Dr. Summers has allowed them to contact each other, an email arrives from Tom.

**Aggie,

I know we're supposed to refrain from drama. I am going to try my best, but I have missed you terribly and as this is the first time I'm allowed to write to you, I hope I can contain the flow.

Being in the house without you has been difficult. I feel like you're everywhere. In my free time I read your books, both the ones you've written and the ones you own. I've been meaning to ask you if there was anything from the house you wanted, but I figured you would have sent someone to get it -- it gives me hope that you're coming back. 

Lent is coming. It's starting late, the first Wednesday of March.I know you don't think I think about stuff like that, but this time of year makes me think about the first year of our marriage. It was a bit of a shock to me, that first Lent, when you said you wanted to give up sex. But we had been going at it like rabbits since the honeymoon, and your reasoning was...well, I confess I was still a bit flabbergasted at the time. Thank God for the Sunday exception or else I wouldn't have made it. But I think about it and realize that giving up a lesser good for a great good is worthwhile. It's taken me a long time to come to that conclusion. And now I'm seeing it again, in our separation. I gave up a lesser good for the greater good that will hopefully come when we are together again and will be able to avoid the mistakes we've made. Even looking back, I can see mistakes we made -- the next Lent you just wanted to refrain from anything kinky, and then eventually we stopped abstaining altogether. This Lent, we are back to year one -- I've been thinking so much about our last session, how we overcompensate with sex. We should do what we did in that first year again. We need to get to know each other again.

Love, Tom**

Agnes stares at it, rereading it several times. She had forgotten that first Lent. The memory makes her smile...the Sunday exception had been a lifeline for Tom. So much so that he'd made them both sleep in exceptionally late on Saturday morning so that they would be awake long past midnight into Sunday. It had refreshed something that had just started to feel a tiny bit stale. 

But she can't seem to find a reply in her. Tom had refrained from too much drama, speaking from his heart. Her heart still feels sore, still feels unable to move past the pain. Tom's particular words about waiting for her to come home cause the sharp pangs to start -- because the longer this goes on, the more sure she is that she isn't going home.

Suddenly she is angry. She has to close the laptop and walk away. 

The thoughts circle around her brain, wondering what she could say. She composes letters in her head but all of them deteriorate into emotion that she doesn't feel belongs in an email. 

There is no way she's ready to return to London. She needs to stay here, she needs Malcolm's help, she needs this space. The thought of going back to Tom, back to living under the same roof with him, sleeping in the same bed as him, suddenly feels suffocating. 

And yet he's missed her so much.

Agnes hasn't been able to bring herself to even watch him on the television screen. While she has fervidly avoided any and all entertainment gossip to prevent her from seeing the things that are being said about her, she does know, through carefully controlled sources, that the scandal of her and Tom's separation is causing a serious divide of opinion. She knows it's hurting his reputation, the cheating prince charming. But somehow her life seems so utterly removed from that...

...and she likes it that way.

The thought of Tom coming here, being in her space, is just as panic-inducing. 

This is wrong. She was never supposed to end up like this. She took the whole concept of marriage so seriously, she thought she had prepared, and yet she's become all the things she feared. 

How can Tom still want her? How can he still want to spend his life with her? Why can't he see how he would be so much better off, why won't he embrace it? Yet instead he stubbornly persists in trying to bring them back together.

She has to tell him. She has to make her wishes known. She's afraid of them, afraid of the pain they will bring to everyone, afraid that they're wrong and she'll only realize it once it's too late.

These thoughts take her to the patio, far back away from the sliding kitchen doors, where she sits and indulges in a few tears. It's been a while since she's been driven to them, and she makes herself let them out. 

Then there is a warm hand on her shoulder, and she looks up to see...

"Chris?"

Chris Evans looks down at her, expression sympathetic. "Hey," he says softly. "I'm sorry, do you want me to leave you alone?"

"No, no," Agnes replies quickly, scooting over on the seat, wide enough for two. "No, it's...it's okay, I'm just...I didn't expect you to be here."

"Angie and I have been starting rehearsals for a new movie," Chris says by way of explanation. "It just happened, we're getting a jump on it."

Agnes remembers Angela talking about something like that. But maybe she mentally blocked it because thinking about Chris makes her think about...

"How is Diana?" she asks, wiping at her tears.

Chris shakes his head. "I'd rather talk about you."

Agnes has known Chris for quite some time. Almost since before she started dating Tom. She has always liked him because he is nothing as he appears to be. He acts like a playboy, he acts intense and arrogant, but that's just his acting. He is capable of a wide range and he holds his cards close to his chest. He lets very few people know what he is actually thinking, but is a showman and capable of being as utterly charming and hypnotic as Tom. 

It is only because Agnes is one of the few people who knows the man behind the image that she sees the line of pain across Chris' brow.

"What happened with Diana?" Agnes asks, almost by sixth sense.

Chris sighs. "I don't think--"

"Chris."

"She went back to London," he admits. "Since the thing with you and Tom...she was upset about it, and it led us to a few fights and I don't think...I don't think we're going to keep seeing each other."

Thoughts begin to circle around Agnes' head....

Diana back in London.

No. She can't go there.

Chris hands her a handkerchief from his pocket. He's one of the last few people on the planet to carry them, and it's a nice piece of dark blue silk. She wipes at her eyes.

"Talk to me, Agnes," Chris asks, his arm sliding around her shoulders. 

"I...uh...Chris, it's so complicated...I don't want to drag you into this mess."

His fingers give the stray ends of her hair a bit of a tug. "It's okay, you obviously need someone to listen."

Agnes shakes her head. "I just...I can't tell you things before I tell Tom, you know? It wouldn't be...wouldn't be right."

"Are you and Tom talking?"

"We're...emailing. We weren't supposed to talk except during sessions, but Dr. Summers lifted the ban. We can email, text, and when we're ready, we can Skype or call."

"Then text him. Tell him what you're feeling."

She shakes her head. "If only it were that simple. We're not supposed to discuss things outside of therapy."

"Things like...deciding on your future?"

She nods. Chris nods too.

"I get it. I do. I just hate to see you upset like this. You obviously have a lot on your mind. Maybe you need someone who isn't involved in everything. You know whatever you tell me never leaves this patio."

Chris was, of all things, discrete. She'd never known him to break confidence. 

"Do you miss Tom?" he finally asks softly.

She shrugs. "Sometimes. But...usually when I think about being with him I just think about all the things that are wrong."

"Well..." Chris knows Tom was unfaithful but otherwise the details have been kept away from just about everybody except for Angela. "It can't be easy to forgive someone for...for something like that."

Agnes considers this. 

"You know," she says, wondering if she'll regret ever saying anything later, but now that she's started talking finding it difficult to stop, "it isn't so much that. I mean, it is that, don't think it isn't...but I'm really more upset..." She remembers who she's talking to and chokes off her words.

"About?" Chris prods.

"I don't want to tell you," she mumbles.

"Is it about Diana?" Chris asks. That line of pain on his forehead deepens.

She nods.

"They never slept together," Chris reminds her.

"Doesn't matter. He had feelings for her. I can't help but think she went back to London to find him. I'm paranoid like that."

Chris is silent for a long moment, and then says, "I think about that, too."

If anyone can understand anxiety, it's Chris. It's been a strong bonding point between them in the years they've known each other. 

Another long silence, and then Agnes says, "I guess I haven't allowed myself to dwell to much on his sexual infidelity. I'm rather obsessive and I'm afraid all I'll do is picture him with someone else, to the point where I won't be able to even think about being with him myself anymore."

Chris shakes his head. "You know, I have to admit...on one hand, I sometimes have a hard time believing that Tom did that. I mean, we all wondered when he would ever settle down, and he went through a lot of effort for..."

Agnes feels that familiar wrench in her stomach and the tears bubble up out of her. Her face scrunches and her chin falls to her chest with a dry sob.

"Oh, shit, I'm...I'm sorry..." Chris' arm clenches, pulling her closer to him. "I'm sorry, I said the wrong thing...I'm sorry..."

"No...no, you're right," she manages, pulling her head up again. She sniffles hard, pushing down the lump in her throat. "Tom was so determined. He knew how much fidelity and loyalty meant to me, and they meant so much to him. The Tom I married...he adored me."

"He still does," Chris says.

"But you know," she sighs, "all those reasons I didn't want...those reasons I was afraid...those were valid reasons. Tom was...he'd been around. A few times. Sometimes I worry he changed who he was to please me, which...I never asked him to do that. I never wanted him to. So I...I feel like this is my fault. I've felt like all of this has been my fault."

"You've been blaming yourself?" Chris whispers.

She can only nod.

"Well, coming from someone who knows exactly how that kind of thinking works," Chris says, "I feel obligated to remind you that you're wrong."

"That's what they keep telling me," Agnes manages a bitter chuckle.

Chris pushes her hair back from where it keeps falling over her shoulders. "Agnes, it's amazing that...that you've even gotten this far," Chris says. "That you haven't given in to being bitter and hateful. Because that's what most people do when something like this happens. And they justify it because the other person is the one who broke their trust. Look, Tom made a choice. He didn't have to cheat on you. He had other options and he picked that one. That is totally on him. If he was unhappy, he should have...I don't know, you should have gone to therapy years ago."

"I've heard all this," Agnes intones.

"Then maybe you need to hear it again until it sinks in," Chris says with another squeeze of his arm. "That anger you're feeling, you're directing it all at yourself and maybe one of the reasons you're not feeling like you're getting anywhere is because you're not directing some of it where it belongs."

"And let myself become bitter and hateful?"

Chris sighs. "I know it feels like that's what it's going to turn into. But you're a better person than that, Agnes. You've always been a better person than you ever give yourself credit for."

She wants to shrug him off. "I'm so tired of hearing that."

"I know," Chris says, and she rests her head on his shoulder. 

Finally, she says it. "I don't know if I want to keep trying."

"To what, be a good person?"

"Maybe. I mean..." she lifts her head off his shoulder, "I don't know how much you remember of when Tom and I got together--"

"I remember you drove him up the wall," Chris teases. "He was so crazy for you it drove him to distraction. Mostly because you were so determined not to be caught."

"You know that old saying about the only thing worse than not getting what you want is getting it? Sometimes I think Tom was only so persistent because I kept saying no. If I had been determined to get him I couldn't have played it better."

"That isn't why he wouldn't give up," Chris reminds her. "I remember asking him why, why you, when you just wouldn't budge." Agnes looks up at him in genuine curiosity. "He said it was because he knew. It was one of those things he was sure of. And then he told me some strange story about Jesus and something called a Tabor moment."

Agnes almost smiles. "I told him that story. What it boils down to is that love is about what you see and nobody else does, and nobody else can understand it. They're not meant to. It has nothing to do with sense or reason or rationality. Which is the only explanation for why Tom was so crazy about me."

Chris pauses, but gives her a look she suspects has more words behind it than she wants to hear at the moment. When he does speak, it is not what she expects. "And you resisted, why?" he asks. "Because you were convinced he was a playboy?"

She nods. "I thought I was just a challenge, a contest to win. And when I started to realize he was serious, I didn't think it would work simply because his sexual attitudes were so out of tune with mine. I didn't think for a second he would be content to wait, and even if he somehow managed, he'd never appreciate the deeper aspects of a real commitment. He was too restless."

"So what changed?"

She considers his words. She's answered this question so many times, but the words have started to lose meaning to her. So instead, she says, "Did you know that when I was twenty-three, I tried to join a convent?"

His eyebrows lift in surprise, but he listens.

"I fought it for a long time. I suspected I was called to be a nun for a few years before then, and I remember very clearly that every time I started to think about it, I would want to cry. I considered that a bad sign, so for a good long while I didn't do anything about it. I just didn't think I was called to be married, and at that age you don't want to think about yourself being single for the rest of your life."

"Why didn't you think you were called to be married?"

"I'd never had a date in high school, and when college started, I was asked out a few times but...I didn't like it. I mean, I didn't like dating. I maybe had one date all my college life with a boy I was actually interested in and even that didn't go well. And all my friends just shrugged me off and said I needed to give these guys a chance, let myself relax, not rush anything...but I was always the kind of person who knew, you know? I knew I wasn't interested. So I thought, if I'm not called to that vocation, maybe I'm supposed to be a nun? I was always pretty religiously devout...and it just seemed like the thing to do."

"What order did you try to join?"

"The Daughters of Saint Paul, they're called the Paulines nowadays, they run bookstores, they have one in L.A. Their motherhouse was in Boston, I spent a year visiting, discerning, and then applying. And when they said they didn't think I had a vocation, I was actually relieved."

"So you knew you didn't."

Agnes shrugs. "I didn't know. It seemed like a path I should be on. I prayed every day that if I was doing the wrong thing, then God had to stop me. If He didn't want me on that path, then He had better show me where the right one was because I had no idea. And then not a month after the convent rejected me, I got published."

She gives a little chuckle. "I thought it was a sign. I was ridiculously happy...and I ended up here in L.A. and becoming friends with Angela, and even then, dating just didn't seem to be my thing. If I was interested in a guy, he wasn't interested in me. And vice versa. That drove all my friends nuts, to the point where they started teasing me that one of my qualifications for liking a guy was specifically that he didn't like me back. Surest way to lose my interest was to show me any of yours. And at first that was how it was with Tom...but I did really like him, I was crazy attracted to him, and it was the first time, ever in my life, when both of those things coincided. And it was the most terrifying fucking thing ever."

Gently, Chris rubs her shoulder. 

"I'd come to the conclusion that I wasn't supposed to be married, and I thought Tom was some kind of test. I mean, he wasn't Catholic, he didn't believe in the things I did, and it just...it didn't make sense, being with him. All I could see were the things that would go wrong. All the ways we wouldn't work. I knew it wouldn't work, but...but a girl can only take so much, and it got to the point where I convinced myself that maybe... maybe it was for both of us. That God had brought him to me and me to him so we could bring out the best in each other. And in spite of his promiscuity, there was so much to love in Tom...and so I made the same prayer. I was going to follow the path, and if God didn't want me on it, He had to stop me, because I didn't see another."

She swallows, wishing for some water. "What if this is Him stopping me?"

Chris considers her words. "You think He would have let you go on this long? Let you actually marry Tom, all of that, if it wasn't the right thing?"

"I don't know."

"You know. You really think God is cruel enough to lead you on like that? Deliberately into error?"

"No, but...but what if it was me? What if it was me being stubborn and self-indulgent and deluding myself? What if I was supposed to keep resisting and I was weak and gave in and now this is the price I'm paying?"

"And have you been praying on this?"

"I get distracted. I start and then my brain spins out of control imaging all kinds of scenarios and dwelling on the past and I get...I lose focus."

"Then you have to keep trying." Chris hand goes under her chin, props it up. "Look, I haven't always been the best Catholic, but I do know a thing or two about prayer, and you can't give up. You center yourself and you try again."

"I know, but...Chris, what if it is all my fault? I mean...I could have said no. I could have walked away. I keep thinking, I knew better. I knew better and yet I gave in anyway, thinking we could get around it. When you fall in love with someone, you have to accept them the way they are. You don't wait for them to change. And that's what conversion is, it's change. So how I could I have accepted Tom, being as devoted to my faith as I was, and knowing he wasn't...it went against what I believed! Sometimes I don't know why I ever wanted...I mean, I don't know what I was thinking, sometimes, what he offered me, only that I wanted to be with him. And all of that...all of it, Chris. All of that builds up, over time. The foundation was bad. From the start. And now the house has crumbled in on itself and who knew that was going to happen? Me."

Chris stares into her eyes for a long moment and then says, "Then maybe you have to rebuild it."

"When a foundation is bad? You can't fix that."

"I didn't say fix. I said rebuild. Let it fall, and then rebuild it with the right foundation."

\---------------------

Later that night, when Agnes can't sleep, she starts to tap out an email to Tom.

//Tom,

I'm also going to try and keep things simple. You're right, we need time to re-learn how to talk to each other. 

I hope you're not spending too much free time reading. I know you get restless if you don't work. You were talking before about David Woolhouse and directing, how is that going? Has there been any movement there? 

I have been writing. You know me and my writing. You know how I use it to deal with everything, how I manipulate situations and change facts in order to vent and get my own head straight. I know how die-hard loyal of a fan you are, but you'd better keep that in mind when you read this one. Part of it is fantasy, something I haven't quite attempted -- Game of Thrones stuff, but I'm not much of a world-builder, so we'll see how it goes. 

Speaking of memory lane, I remember the very last time you played Loki. By then I think you were ready to say goodbye to the character, but you had to have your last hurrah. I don't know how to bribed the costume manager into letting you take it out -- maybe because you had just wrapped, and you promised to show up to his son's birthday party. Then when that policeman pulled you over for speeding he thought you were just another cosplayer -- didn't realize you were the real Loki until you spouted that old speech from the first Avengers movie. "Yeah, buddy, heard it," I think he said, and wrote you a ticket anyway. Took you a while to forgive me to for laughing as hard as I did. Personally, I never thought the dark hair suited you, but it did make your eyes look more green. 

Anyway. My nephew will forever adore you for convincing Hemsworth and Downey for coming to his birthday party in front of all his school friends. That was only a few years ago, wasn't it? I think Angela and Evans are working together, so he's been around the house lately. He mentioned that he and Diana aren't together anymore. But I'm not supposed to talk about that stuff. That can wait until we see each other again in session. There are a few things I have been thinking about collecting. If I decide to get them I'll send Kristine over, when she's free. 

Love, Agnes.//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will be a few weeks before the next chapter goes up. I'm almost done with the next one but I've had too many other stressors in my life that are keeping me from writing. And right now my Tom obsession is starting to wane (as I knew it eventually would) so I want to put all my energies into finishing this before it goes away entirely. Unfortunately, for those of you who have been reading my other stuff, this means Tom and Michelle may go on hiatus indefinitely. I'm not in a fluffy place with them and they were supposed to be a fluffy couple. And no it's not because of Tom and Elizabeth Olsen -- I wish they were serious because she is adorable and he's an idiot if he's just a friends with benefits kind of guy. But I won't go there. :) ;-p


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes decides. But can she act on it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to GoldDust -- and she knows why. :)

The following Sunday, Agnes awakens to a feeling of peace. It's unusual for her to not start her day with a pillow-ful of worries waiting to jump into her brain. The first moment of the day is usually the worst, when she forces herself to remember all the things that are wrong, as if somehow forgetting them will make them worse. But this time, the butterflies with their razor wings are not moving through her stomach, and the weight of her marriage is not hanging over her head.

Is this because, deep down, she has decided? She isn't sure. But right now the anxiety is asleep and she doesn't want to wake it. 

She feels so good that when Charles asks her to join his little group for brunch after Mass, she agrees. Most of the group she's familiar with -- Charles has a thing for unusual and sometimes irritating people, and Agnes knows she can be a part of that -- but there is a new person, a slender, dark haired young man with round brown eyes and thick black eyelashes, and a Dublin accent. His name is Colm, a fitting Irish name, which means "dove." Charles considers himself a prime mimic and he takes great delight speaking with Colm in a flawless Dublin accent, then switching to accents from other parts of Ireland, to which Colm responds with appropriate giggles (manly giggles, but giggles nonetheless). When Colm speaks, though, his own tone is soft and lilting, which makes his name seem more fitting. He is a calming presence and Agnes instantly likes him.

Colm is an aspiring fantasy writer. He is a bit star-struck at meeting her, which takes Agnes by surprise, as she doesn't really consider herself a fantasy writer. He has read her entire flagship series, the one turned into movies that starred her best friend Angela. He is a bit of a fanboy, a word Charles supplies to him, and Agnes finds herself enjoying talking about that series, which she finished four years ago, and has begun to miss. A few short stories and novellas have turned up and appeared in some anthologies, and her publishing company has been talking about compiling them into a stand-alone book for the series with a request for some new material, and she has had a few ideas for an original novella, but nothing has quite come to fruition yet. Life has been too distracting, and now with new ideas in her head for a new book, she's put it on the side.

However, talking with Colm has helped stir the juices. They spend most of the lunch talking to each other, and for Agnes, it is a breath of fresh air to get to talk to someone about something other than her own personal hell. 

The next week, Agnes is caught up in putting together ideas for the novella. A lot of this involves pacing the length of her room with her iPod playing, selecting inspiring music that fits some of the scenes in her head, and simply daydreaming everything into a storyline. She flips through the old books, not having looked at them in a very long time, and finds herself getting pulled into her own world, old words suddenly finding new life. By the end of the week she's got a rough outline and even five new pages to show her agent. 

It's rejuvenating. She finds herself hoping to run into Colm again at church that weekend.

This also gives her something to talk about to Tom. He emails her again, almost immediately, talking about the potential directing gig he has been working on. She fires back with talk about the novella, although Tom asks what has happened to the original novel she was working on, and she ends up telling him about Colm.

But as much as distractions help her get through the weeks, Agnes knows she cannot delay her decision much longer. So she calls Dr. Summers a few nights before their next session, and tells her what she is afraid might be the only option.

"I know you didn't make this decision lightly, Agnes," Dr. Summers says, and she sounds distinctly...sad. "But if you are absolutely sure, it wouldn't be right to tell Tom over a computer screen, from another continent. You should make plans to come here."

And now Agnes wavers. It is one thing to decide, it is another thing to act. Her stomach is filled with acid. "For...for how long?"

"At least a week. To finish settling things between you two. I assume you don't want to continue therapy, although I would recommend it for at least a few more sessions to make sure you two are at peace with the decision."

Agnes almost laughs. "Tom won't be at peace."

"Well, that is a good point. But it needs to be handled delicately. He's going to think you're punishing him, and he needs to be made to understand why you are making this choice."

From wavering to hesitation...and now she feels her resolve faltering. "I don't know, Dr. Summers...maybe I need to think about it more. I'm...I'm sorry..."

"Don't be, you have no reason to be. It's difficult to work yourself up to something like this. Sometimes we need to start on one path to realize it's the right or wrong one."

Like when I tried to join a convent, she thinks.

"I don't think I'll be able to make it to London for this coming session," Agnes says.

"No, I wouldn't recommend it. Maybe for the next one, two weeks after, if you're sure that's the way you want to go."

"Do you...do you think it's the right thing to do?"

"That's not my place."

"But, off the record--"

"Sorry, Agnes. I don't make those kinds of decisions. I don't look at a couple and decide if they are going to work or not. My job is to help them work if they want to work, and smooth the psychological strain if they decided not to."

"So you do think Tom and I could work?"

"You both have free will, Agnes," Dr. Summers sighs. "You do what you choose. Can or can't are diagnoses, they're choices."

"It's just...I don't think I can keep this a secret from him. I mean, I feel bad enough telling you instead of telling him...I feel like I should tell him. But I am...I'm just utterly terrified and I don't know how. I know it's going to upset him."

"Yes."

"I want him to see that it's the right choice."

"Agnes, if you're saying you don't want him to be hurt and angry, I'm afraid that isn't up to you. It's something you're not going to be able to avoid."

"I know..."

"Before you make your choice, reverse the position. Say that it is Tom who decides that he doesn't want to continue the marriage. That he wants a divorce."

Agnes falls silent. 

"Contemplate that, before the next session. If it comes out, it comes out, we'll deal with it, but I think if you take the opposite side, you might see things a little different."

\-------------

When the times comes for their next session, things are...strange. There is a distinct lack of strain in the atmosphere of the room, yet Agnes feels like she's sitting on a secret and she can't take it.

For the most part, it goes well. It focuses on strategies for problem solving, how to work through rough patches, how to communicate, and Tom listens eagerly, nodding his head and idly playing with the scruff on his chin, a habit that makes Agnes feel an affection for him that is almost painful. His eyes drift to her regularly, those huge piercing orbs penetrating her, as if he can see through her. It fills her with a sense of irritation that even after all this time, she is always struck by his physical beauty, always affected by how he looks at her.

Then about ten minutes toward the end, it all goes to hell.

"I'd like to say something, if that's okay," Tom says, perching on the edge of the couch, his hands fiddling with each other between his knees.

Dr. Summers nods, but doesn't smile. She looks to Agnes. "Is that all right with you?"

Agnes is watching them from her position at the edge of the coffee table between them. She is turned more toward Tom than Dr. Summers, but she can easily see Dr. Summer's face from her position. Tom scoots on the couch so that he is as close to the laptop as he can get without blocking her view.

"Yeah," Agnes says.

"I've been thinking a lot about our last session, and the concern you have over Diana, and how it wasn't me, but her, that realized the truth of things. And I wish I could find some words to assure you, but...the best I could do was to remind you of a few things."

Agnes waits, expectant.

"When I first met you, I was everything you thought I was, Aggie. I was a player, absolutely. I valued being free, but I wanted to control everything, I wanted to guard all the parts I didn't want anyone to see. I wanted to flirt with the whole world and I wanted all the attention I could get, and I was probably the loneliest person I knew. And you saw all of that. You saw every bit of it. But I knew you felt...connected to me, I guess, in spite of or maybe because. I wanted to convince myself it was just my ego talking but something just kept pulling me back to you, and my tenacity wouldn't let it go. I would have given up on you months before if you'd been anyone else. But I also absolutely knew that you were something I would never, ever find again.

"I'm afraid you think I won't give up on this marriage out of some kind of pride. And I know I deserve to lose it, I deserve to lose you. Before you, I would never have admitted that to anyone. I had too much pride, too much arrogance. And in these last years, I've been struggling with reconciling finding all the things I've always wanted in a partner with the realities of who I am and my limitations. And I have not lived up to any of my promises to you.

"But I don't want to give up. I was running away, with Diana. I was running away from you, from our problems. And yes, she saw it first. She saw it because I was too caught up in...I was...I was in so much pain that I thought the solution was to give up. Or at least I was tempted to. I thought I had made a mistake, losing my freedom and that nothing in our marriage was what I thought it was, that you weren't who I thought you were, that it had all been a lie. And I was tempted, so very tempted to just go back to my old ways. But she called me on it. She called me on being that awful person. I think I was still to0 caught up in myself to realize it, and I didn't want to deal with it, you know I have a pattern of ignoring things to avoid conflict, so I sighed in relief and I went back to life as I knew it and things...well, they were good for a while, but we weren't dealing with the problems and so...that's why Clare. And Regina was a weakness, because of all those bad habits that are screaming at me to take them up again, thinking that I was happier before."

Agnes listens to him and thinks about Dr. Summers' advice, about considering the situation as if Tom wanted to leave her. She could hardly get past the giant balloon of pain in her chest that squeezed against her lungs and ribs at the thought. 

"Were you happier before, Tom?" she whispers.

Tom shakes his head. "I don't know where it went. I felt it, for a little bit, with you. I had this idea of what my life would be like when I finally found a woman I was willing to commit to, to be faithful to...and when it didn't happen the way I thought, I didn't understand why I was bothering. But I know it was there, even if it was temporary, I know for a bit we found that balance, and...it touched something so deep in me, Aggie...I can't begin..."

"Tom," Dr. Summers says gently. "Marriage isn't all about that equilibrium you're talking about. There are going to be ups and downs, good times and bad times. Even in a healthy marriage. That's to be expected."

Tom nods. "I don't want to pretend anymore. I know avoiding our problems is what caused most of this. And when I think about how my life was before you, Agnes, and how it was after...and five minutes of sweetness with you again would make all of this worth it. I've always been a student, Aggie. I've always been about changing and growing -- admittedly, I've been more talk than action. But I can't go back to what it was before, and write this off as a learning experience. This is life and growth and pain and beauty and..."

He is working himself up, Agnes realizes. Tom's drama is difficult to deal with, but most of it is coming from a real place. It's how he knows how to cope. 

"Tom," Agnes says very gently, "I know you want those things. I know exactly what you're talking about. I can't call it a change -- it was a growth in you, or a desire to grow, that made me realize I wanted to be with you."

And there it was. The truth. 

"I wanted to be there to see it because I knew it was coming. And I saw how it could lead me to grow, too. You let me have a glimpse past the restless actor and the playboy celebrity and the perfect gentleman and the closet cad, and let me see who you were. I knew I'd have to wade through all the rest of it. And I knew it was a risk, a terrible risk. And you have grown, Tom. You aren't the same man you were before. It's up to you to maintain that, to nurture it. But those aren't reasons to marry someone-- or even to stay in a marriage..."

"Aren't they?" Tom counters. "I know how badly...I've hurt you and I'm wrong, I'm sorry, I will be sorry to the end of my days. But I think if we can move past this, what we could become...how we could use this to be closer instead of moving away, Aggie..."

Agnes shakes her head. "I don't know if I can, Tom. Not because I'm still angry or hurt, not because I don't love you, but because of what I've learned about myself from this. And there is some truth in quitting while we're ahead. This could be all we're capable of. Any more and we'll do more harm, undo any good that might come out of it."

Tom's expression twists into anguish. He looks away, then gets up, but he doesn't leave the room. Dr. Summers' gaze tracks him as he circles the office -- it's the only evidence Agnes has that he hasn't stormed out.

"Perhaps we aren't quite ready to lift the separation," Dr. Summers says diplomatically, but the next thing Agnes realizes is that Tom has scooped up the laptop and his face is filling the screen.

"Say it, Agnes. Just tell me outright." He is not yelling, but his eyes are intense. He is holding the laptop close enough to make her want to back away.

"Tell you what?"

"Don't play dumb! Tell me!" His voice gets firmer, but isn't not quite as loud as it could be. He is struggling with his temper. The only times she's ever seen Tom blow his stack is when he is utterly convinced he is right and can't get anyone to see it.

"Tell you what, that I'm afraid? That it might just be too damn hard? That I don't think I can live up to what you need, that maybe I never could? Maybe you're right, Tom. Maybe you do have some delusion about me and I' m not who you thought I was. Maybe all this time I've been trying to be something I'm not and now I'm tired and I don't want to anymore!"

Tom stares at her. She half expects him to throw down the laptop and storm off, again, but he doesn't. 

"I want the chance to know for sure," Tom says. 

"Three years ago, that thought occurred to you," she points out, "that I wasn't who you thought. And now these last three years we've been sinking further and further into the pit and what if it's because you're seeing who I really am and I'm not who you really want?"

"I know who you really are, Agnes, and I do want you. Do you know how hard it is for me to admit how wrong I've been, how badly I've messed up? And yet I've confessed it over and over. Can't I have one more chance to get it right?"

"This isn't another take, Tom, this is our lives!"

"Okay, we both need to settle down," Dr. Summers says from behind. "Tom, please put my laptop down before you throw it across the room."

Tom glances up -- probably looking at Dr. Summers, Agnes thinks. He walks over to his seat and sets the laptop down, but doesn't turn it toward Dr. Summers again, instead he keeps it faced toward him. 

"Both of you need to take a breath," Dr. Summers says. "It is clear to me that this separation might need to continue for the time being. Perhaps another month. Emotions are still running too high--"

"But they aren't!" Tom says, his voice calm but his words expressive. He is still riveted onto Agnes, addressing her. "I admit I've gotten wound up, but the only reason I get set off is when you talk...when Agnes talks," Tom amends, glancing toward Dr. Summers, "about ending our marriage."

"We need to address that in the next session," Dr. Summers says. "If you two do decide to divorce, or if even one of you doesn't want to continue this marriage, the other has to find a way to cope with that. We need to deal with why it causes scenes like this one. Perhaps you need to go over that more in depth with Dr. MacGregor, Tom, over the next two weeks, so we can try to apply it to the situation."

Agnes swipes at her cheeks. They are dry. "Tom," she says, "I'm only trying to do the right thing, for both of us."

Tom just stares at her, then nods. 

"And you are not to continue this particular conversation outside of our sessions," Dr. Summers warns.

But Agnes knows that look. Something in Tom's face...he gets an idea in his head and he has to act on it //now//. He doesn't have the patience to wait for two weeks. She's known him long enough to see when he's going to do something regardless of what anyone tells him.

All she can do is wait.  
\-------------------

A strange thing happens.

Agnes doesn't fall apart.

She should. Her behavior pattern tells her she should. Drama with Tom always drains her defenses, but she feels like a shield has been placed over her. 

Writing progresses as normal. She runs into Colm again, feels a little thrill as his dark eyes light up as she tells him her ideas. 

"I know I shouldn't ask," he says, as they all sit together in a restaurant on Sunday afternoon, sipping at their drinks as they wait for their dinners to arrive, "but do you think it's possible for me to see it?"

"I wouldn't mind, normally," Agnes replies, "although I'm pretty protective of my writing when it's in gestation. But I hate yes-men -- if there's something off you have to promise to tell me."

"Oh, I promise," he says, but he's got that fanboy gleam about him.

"Not that it isn't great when people say how much they like something," Agnes continues, index finger raised, "but I'm a details kind of girl. If you liked it I want to know why, and if something is wrong I need suggestions on how to fix it."

Charles chuckles at her, tipping his Manhattan in her direction. "This woman will stop fans in line and grill them," he teases. "Careful what you're getting into, Colm."

She and Colm make plans for him to stop by Angela's house a few days later in the week. In the meantime, Agnes determines a schedule for herself. It's easier, writing about these characters, knowing they have an audience. Yet, she has finally reached a place where she feels capable of coping with all the other things going on in her life, and wants to continue working on the other novel she had started to draft. 

Mornings are still devoted to prayer and exercise, but starting in the afternoon she will work on the novella, while evenings will be put into the new original book. Evenings are a more emotional time for her, so channeling it into those characters which are only variations of herself will be a way to cope with them.

On Saturday, Nicolas comes over, and Agnes has Charles by to look at her beginning drafts to get some feedback, and Chris stops by to drop off some notes for Angela and exchange a few rumors, and the five them wind up ordering some food and sitting around Angela's dining room table, laughing and talking and finally deciding to play a few rounds of Cards Against Humanity.

The trick to the game is knowing what everyone likes. Charles is always put off by anything too vulgar. Chris is perverted, so the more vulgar the better for him. Nicolas and Angela seem to know each other's quirks, even when they make sure nobody knows whose cards are whose by blindfolding the judge in each round. And Agnes has a dark, twisted sense of humor, and when it's her turn to judge, those who know her best, Angela and Charles, seem to effortlessly take the win every time. Until Chris starts to figure it out and plays them both under the table. 

A few hours into it, a break is necessary. Bathroom breaks are required after all the laughing, and Agnes' throat hurts, so she and Chris retreat to the kitchen to get some drinks. 

"It's good to see you like this," Chris says, rifling through the stash of snacks Angela always keeps in the lower cupboards. 

"Like what, laughing?" Agnes replies.

"It's been a while," Chris admits.

"Yeah, it has," she sighs, then presses her hands to her cheeks. "My face hurts. I have to make myself not smile for a bit, just give it a rest."

"Takes more muscles to frown than smile!" Chris points out.

"What about to giggle like an idiot?"

"I'll have to look that one up," Chris chuckles, and then turns and freezes. "Um..."

Agnes' back is to him so she doesn't see. She's got the fridge door open and is contemplating what drinks to bring everyone else. "You're right, it's been a really long time. I didn't realize how long until you pointed it out. Laughter is good cardio. I almost feel like I'm on a runner's....high."

By now she has turned, and is staring at the same sight that Chris sees.

Tom is standing in the kitchen doorway. And he looks extremely pissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to update next week. I know you guys can't be expected to sit on a cliffhanger for two weeks.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bottom drops out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late -- graduation was this week, my first class, and I've been buried. Slept for 12 hours after it was done.

"So glad to see you're having such a grand time," Tom bites out. 

He looks like hell, Agnes realizes. He's pale, thin, bony. His eyes are dagger-like in intensity, his cheekbones are protruding slightly. The muscles in his jaw jump, and his fingers are flexing into fists. 

"What are you doing here?" is all she can manage, and she instantly knows it was the wrong thing to say. Tom's eyes blaze as they dig into her.

"I have no fucking idea," he growls, his voice starting to rise, that whip-sharp tongue of his coming into play now that he has a direction. "Apparently, I seem to have stepped into some fucked up alternate reality where my wife and one of my best friends have utterly forgotten my existence. Or maybe I just never existed at all!"

"Shit, Tom," Chris stammers, flustered by Tom's rage, "you need to take a breath. What do you think is going on!"

"I don't have to fucking think, I know!" Tom roars, stepping deeper into the kitchen. By now, his raised voice has drawn the attention of the others in the house and steps can be heard in the hallway and on the stairs. Tom nearly strides up to Chris, his eyes flickering with accusation. "Your girlfriend goes after me, and you come here, is that it?"

"Goes after--" Chris starts, but Agnes overrides him.

"Goes after you?" she repeats Chris' words in an entirely different tone. "What are you talking about? What happened?"

Tom completely ignores her, totally zeroed in on Chris. He steps closer, almost into the man's personal space. "Go ahead, deny it! The second you knew Agnes and I were on the verge of quits, you both went right to it! I always knew you had a thing for Agnes but I never thought you would be this underhanded!"

His words are ringing bells in Agnes' head but she can't get him to look at her. So she does something very stupid -- she steps right between him and Chris. "Are you insane?" she shrieks. "Chris doesn't...Chris would never!"

"The hell he wouldn't!" Tom still won't look at her, instead he seems intent on killing Chris with his gaze alone. "Go ahead, tell her! You've fancied her for years but knew she'd never look twice at you and now that I was out of the picture you went for broke! TELL HER!"

Tom's voice rumbles like thunder. Agnes almost stumbles back into Chris' chest, but instead pushes forward, surging into Tom. Her hands shove her husband hard, desperate for his attention. She manages to get him back a foot before those blazing eyes settle on her. "You're drunk! You're fucking drunk! You're blathering like a madman!"

Suddenly both Charles and Nicolas are behind Tom, one hand on each shoulder, pulling him back. Tom still rants, "You fucking coward, tell her the truth! Tell her!"

Helpless, Agnes turns to Chris, and is mystified by what she sees on his face -- guilt.

"He's crazy," she says.

Chris' eyes don't leave Tom. "I wouldn't do that," he says, his voice unnaturally soft compared to Tom's wild ravings. His eyes fall to her, pleading. "You know I wouldn't do that."

Agnes is momentarily stilled by shock. "No," she whispers.

Chris swallows. 

"See?" Tom crows. "I told you! All these years, carrying a torch like a fucking schoolboy--"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Agnes screams at him, spinning on her heel to barrel right into her husband's face. "HOW FUCKING DARE YOU SHOW UP AND DO THIS! WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"

"I'M YOUR FUCKING HUSBAND!" he screams back, equally incensed. 

"YOU DON'T GET TO PLAY THAT CARD ANYMORE!" she screams back, and then hears her own words. 

They are like a punch in Tom's face. He physically blanches at them, leaning forward a bit as if reeling under a blow. 

Angela is there, her arm around Agnes' chest, dragging her away. "You both need to calm down," she says, her voice commanding. It's her stage voice, designed to draw attention. "You're both acting like lunatics. Chris," Angela adds, her tone now filled with sympathy, "maybe you should..."

"Yeah," Chris finishes. His head ducks, his cheeks flame. "I'm...I'm sorry, Agnes. I would never...you know I would never do anything..."

Agnes just shakes her head. She can barely look at him. It's like there is suddenly a different person there. Chris, who had been encouraging her to rebuild, to try again. Chris, who told her that Diana had gone back to London. Who was this man? Her friend?

"Later," is all she manages to choke out. Chris leaves without another word.

His disappearance seems to suck the oxygen out of the room. The fight goes out of Tom, and he sags a bit limp between the two men holding him back. Agnes shakes her head at both of them, and they let him go.

\-----------------------

Agnes sits out on the patio, on the seats that face away from the house. It's exactly she same spot she occupied before their last therapy session, when she'd been overcome by tears. When Chris had come out to comfort her.

The minute they had let Tom go, he'd come out here. Turned out he was stone sober, not a whiff of alcohol on him. He sits here now, inches away from her, bent over, elbows on knees, head in hands. She followed, unable to do anything else, once she'd caught her breath. It's been minutes, and they haven't spoken yet.

She can't bring herself to touch him. She wants to. She wants to do something. She can't take it when Tom is hurting like this, but her own pain and confusion paralyze her. 

Seeing him again, after all these months...his physical presence still consumes her. She knows now why they had to separate. She can't think clearly when he's there, she's too emotional, she's too ruled by too many other passions -- few of them good -- to be reasonable, to steady herself. 

Tom used to steady her. He used to be her rock. Those days feel so long ago. 

"Diana came to see me," he says, his voice gravelly as he slowly lifts his face from his hands. 

"I figured," she replies.

"Not like you think," Tom says, and Agnes frowns.

"That's now how you made it sound before."

Tom shakes his head. "Not what I meant. She didn't...well, she did but...she was more afraid...she wanted to know why we'd split. She figured it had happened right after we'd all had dinner. She figured that you knew about us. She was afraid of being dragged into it, she was afraid of being the cause, she was worried for me...and she still had feelings for me. She managed to get that out, too."

Agnes sits on these words for several long moments. "What did you say?" she finally asks.

"I...I think I made her feel like a desperate idiot," he admits, shakily. "I didn't mean to, but...all I could think about was seeing you. It had been gnawing at me all week, and when she...when those memories came back, I just couldn't. I only wanted to see you." He finally turns to her. Those blue eyes are bright with tears. "I just wanted you, Aggie."

Finally, she can touch him. Gently, she takes his hand. "Tom," she starts.

He shakes his head. "You're going to leave me, aren't you?"

She squeezes. "I told you before. I love you. I still love you."

"But it's not enough."

"I'm not punishing you, I promise," she manages over the rising sob. "I'm not angry at you anymore. I forgive you, and I hope someday you can forgive me."

He wipes at his eyes. "For what? You have the right. You've always had the right, much as I tried to make you see otherwise."

"No, not for that. For...for much, much sooner. For the very beginning. It was wrong, it was all wrong from the start. I should have known better." She withdraws her hand, and Tom gives a slight pained noise at the movement. "I always had the power to prevent this and I didn't. I don't know why. I don't know why I was so foolish and careless and cruel..."

"You weren't." He's near sobbing now, his head ducked down, voice muffled as his chin presses on his own chest. "God, Aggie...don't...don't say things like that. Don't...don't act like it was a lie. A mistake. I can't...I can't take that right now."

Her hands go to his shoulders, pulling him closer to her. She wants to hug him but doesn't dare. "Tom, please...I'm so tired of hurting you. I can't seem to do anything else but that. I'm trying so hard to stop but you have to help me."

He shakes his head, still ducked against his chest. "I deserve it. What I've done to you...to us..."

"You don't deserve it," she sobs now too, openly. "You don't deserve any of it, you never did. You...you need something I can't give you. Maybe it was something I could never give anyone. If I had it I would give it to you, I promise."

He slides from the seat and winds up on his knees, in front of her. His hands tangle with hers and he places his head in her lap, and he's kissing her hands and wetting them with his tears, and Agnes feels as if she could die from this pain, it's a physical thing writhing in her chest, spreading through her, consuming her will to live.

"I always knew," she whispers, her face sinking to rest against his shoulder, his curls dampening with her own tears, "that it was my worst fear. My worst nightmare. And now it's coming true. I was so afraid to fail that I never wanted to try. And now I know I should have listened...not all fear is wrong. This one...this one was right."

But what twisted the knife, what she couldn't say, was that this was Tom's worst fear as well. That rejection...opening himself to someone, ultimately, and making that commitment he'd always been afraid of...to finally find one person he could give himself to...and have that person send him away.

He lifts his head and she wants to wail with what she sees on his face. "Then don't let it happen," he whispers, barely able to talk, so overcome as he is. "Say no again, Agnes. You don't...you don't even believe in...in divorce."

"No...I'll..." the words fall out of her mouth without much conscious thought, "I'll start the annulment...process..."

He jerks. "What? That's like...like we were never married...isn't it?"

"That there never was...a marriage."

His eyes grow so dark. "They won't give us one," he says, his voice suddenly like stone. 

She shrugs. "Have to...try. Have to...set you free."

"I'm not free, Agnes," he says, and his voice is off, almost cold but it's something she can't quite place, some elusive emotion there isn't a word for when you're broken beyond endurance, yet still have to fight. "Neither are you. You made vows. So did I. Better or worse. Till death. That was it. We both knew what it meant. You made sure I knew."

"I can't...I can't let you...you need to be happy, Tom. I want to make you happy."

He shakes his head. "If you want to divorce me, fine," he says, that strange almost-cold tone of his voice starting to frighten her, "then do it. I won't hold it against you. But don't, please do not, make a mockery of our years together. If we failed, let's do it honestly. We don't get a do-over. We don't get to take a giant eraser and pretend it was never there." He still grasps her hand, practically wringing it between his.

Oh, Tom, she thinks, where have you gone? Where is the smile of sunshine I used to see, the bright expression, the joy for life? Where did that go? I destroyed it. I'm doing it even now and I can't stop myself. 

"One day," Agnes says, her voice feeling like death, "you'll realize that you can move on. You were made for love, Tom. As hard as it is for you, you were made for it. Someone will inspire you. And I will do whatever I can so that when that moment comes, you can embrace it, freely."

He reaches up, grasps her face in his hand, fingers on one cheek, thumb grazing the other. 

"When that moment comes, you'll be there. You already were."

Then he stands, wipes his cheeks, and leaves.

For a moment, Agnes just sits, frozen. And then Angela is there, her arms around Agnes' shoulders, and Agnes lapses into a kind of shock, beyond tears, beyond grief, and wonders if she'll ever be able to feel anything else again.

\-------------------------------

Something rouses her from her stupor. Someone is humming. A song she knows.

It's a very old song. By a band nobody knows, called The Cyrkle. She used to play it a lot in the car when driving Angela from place to place, and apparently all Angela remembers of it is the chorus.

** And I think it's gonna be all right...  
Yeah, the worst is over now...  
The morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball."**

Agnes' consciousness latches onto the song and she starts to sing softly.

**The story's in the past, with nothing to recall...  
I've got my life to live, and I don't need you at all...  
The rollercoaster ride we took is nearly at an end...  
I bought my ticket with my tears, that's all I'm gonna spend...**

Then they sing the chorus together one more time, very quietly, only hearing each other.

"I called Malcolm," Agnela says.

It's much later. Agnes is aware that time has passed, but how much she isn't sure. She feels like she's been drifting, but for minutes? Hours? It's darker outside -- 

"Tom?" The word that falls from her mouth surprises and fails to surprise, in the same moment. 

"Nicolas took him," Angela explains. Agnes realizes she's lying down, her head in Angie's lap, propped up on one of the lounge pillows. "Back to his place, I think. Didn't want Tom to stay here, not with everything, but didn't want to leave him alone. Nick told me he'd call when something changed."

Nothing is going to change, Agnes thinks, hollow. It's always going to be like this. Forever and ever, world without end, amen. 

"Malcolm should be here any minute," Angie sighs. "I hope you don't mind, I told him what happened. Figure it would cut some time off."

After Tom had retreated to the patio, and Agnes had followed, she wasn't sure what anybody knew. "How much?" is all Agnes can manage. Her throat hurts so much. She wishes she never had to talk again.

"I didn't want to eavesdrop," Angela says, remorseful. "But I was worried so I hung back. I...I pretty much heard everything. I'm sorry."

"No," Agnes sighs, more breath that sound. "Doesn't matter."

"Sweetie, we need to get you upright. You're probably severely dehydrated. We have to get fluids in you."

Chris is gone, Agnes calculates, some tiny part of her mind splitting away from the rest of it to satisfy her need for details. Nicolas took Tom. That leaves...

"Charles?" she manages.

"He, uh...he went with Nicolas and Tom."

That gets Agnes to sit up. Charles went with Tom? That was...strange. 

Tentatively, Angela gets Agnes into the house, makes her drink a bottle of water. It's not enough -- Agnes realizes she is very, very thirsty and starts on a second bottle, gulping too fast and upsetting her stomach. She sits down at the dining room table, while Angela goes to find some antacid. 

Someone shuffles at the front door, and to Agnes' surprise, it isn't Malcolm, come to do some psychological triage, but Charles, and he seems...angry.

Agnes can't help herself. "How is he?" she manages.

"Destroyed," Charles says, his face hard. Then he softens a bit...perhaps the sight of Agnes sitting there, pale, red-eyed, and wilted, evokes some pity. He's like a brother to her, after all.

"I knew it would be hard," she says, her voice hardly above a whisper. "I didn't...I didn't mean it to happen like this."

"No, his showing up unannounced was unwise," Charles says, pulling out a chair from beside her to sit, turning it to face her. "But the real culprit was what you were considering doing, and what you ultimately decided tonight. That your marriage was over."

"It's the right thing." It's a mantra. 

"Is it?" he asks, his tone gentler, but something underneath it that raises her hackles.

"We should never have married to begin with," she declares, still soft. "You know that."

"I knew it then," Charles sighs. "I suspected it. Too many differences between you. And not just sparks, those are fine for any relationship, I mean fundamental differences. But you chose to do it anyway, Agnes. You went into it of your own free will. I'm sorry to tell you, but I highly doubt you're going to be able to get an annulment."

"He told you that, too?" she squeaks.

Charles nods. "It's not divorce, Catholic style. It's not supposed to be, anyway. Lord knows there's enough corruption that you could probably get one if you paid someone off--"

Agnes wants to shut him up but all she can manage is a groan.

"And I know you'd never do that. It's not legitimate. Do you know that most of the annulments that are being given these days are on the grounds that two people are ultimately incompatible? That they can't be married to //this// person, but maybe they could be married to //that// one."

Agnes is very tempted to bury her head in her arm, which leans on the table. 

"Could you live with that, Agnes?"

"It's not for me. It's for Tom."

Charles heaves a deep sigh. "Tom isn't going to be running into another marriage anytime soon. If ever."

"He thinks that now, but when he gets past this..."

"That's just it, Agnes. There is no getting past this. This is a condition you are now going to have to live with, for the rest of your life."

Agnes whimpers, but it turns into an angry grunt. "Why are you being so mean?" she whines. "I know what a monster I am. You don't have to keep rubbing it in!"

Charles shakes his head. "No, that isn't what I'm saying. I'm saying that you don't get to decide to end your marriage. If you and Tom are now going to be in a state of permanent separation, fine, but that doesn't change the fact that you are still bound together, for the rest of your lives."

"I seriously want to throw this water bottle at you right now."

He shrugs, careless. "Fine, go ahead."

"I don't know what your fucking problem is," Agnes barks, a surge of anger giving her energy. She never swears at Charles, but she's too angry to control herself. "You knew it wasn't going to work! You never supported us!"

"Oh, Aggie," Charles says with a shake of his head, "that was never it. I always supported any decision you made. And then, it may have been the wrong decision, in my learned opinion. But that doesn't mean it's the wrong decision now. Whatever it was that made you push forward, that made you go through with it, whatever intuition that told you to do it in spite of everything -- you need to find it now. The circumstances that applied seven, eight, ten years ago, they don't apply anymore. I see two people in terrible pain and the absolute and only answer to their problem is each other. Even if that causes more pain, it's only temporary. It will pass."

Agnes wants to sob in frustration. "We've been...at this for...almost a year! Nothing!"

"And you were told it would take minimum of two years, as long as five."

"Not like this," she denies, shaking her head. "Not like this! It's too much! I can't do another year of this, let alone five! It's...there's not going to be anything left of us when it's done!"

"Change is hard," Charles croons, his tone turning soothing. "Rebirth is hard. But there isn't any Resurrection without a Crucifixion. And who are you to decide what's too much?"

Agnes' fingers close around the water bottle. She is going to chuck it, right at Charles' head. "I am not in the mood for a theological discussion, Charles."

"If we can't apply these things to the worst moments of our lives, when can we?" Charles challenges her. "What good is any Faith if it doesn't keep us strong in times like these? That's the point of everything, Agnes. You know that. What's one of the first lessons we all have to learn? The harder something is, the more grace you get from it. You told me that, years ago. And right now your marriage is hard, extremely so. But enduring that gives you more grace. You used to believe that. And I know it seems impossible, but whatever happened to all things are possible with God? Everyone wants to know the meaning of life but when it's staring them in the face they want to blink."

Agnes almost laughs in aggravation. "Tom can't...he just can't. He's not made of the same stuff--"

"The hell he isn't," Charles grunts. "He made me promise not to tell you, but I can't honor that promise in the face of what I saw tonight. You know those texts I keep sending you? Those quotes? They aren't coming from me. They've been coming from Tom."

This stops her cold. The very thought that Tom would even know who St. John of God //was// floors her. "What?"

Charles pulls out his phone and pulls up his texts. Very plainly, the top of the screen says //Tom.// "Here, this one," Charles said, scrolling. "It was too long, but I was saving it. I think it proves my point."

Agnes takes the phone. The text is long, and it's from St. John Chrysostom, who coined her favorite quote about how the road to Hell is paved with the skulls of priests:

“When we speak of the wife obeying the husband, we normally think of obedience in military or political terms: the husband giving orders, and the wife obeying them. But while this type of obedience may he appropriate in the army, it is ridiculous in the intimate relationship of marriage. The obedient wife does not wait for orders. Rather, she tries to discern her husband’s needs and feelings, and responds in love. When she sees her husband is weary, she encourages him to rest; when she sees him agitated, she soothes him; when he is ill, she nurses and comforts him; when he is happy and elated, she shares his joy. Yet such obedience should not be confined to the wife; the husband should be obedient in the same way. When she is weary, he should relieve her of her work; when she is sad, he should cherish her, holding her gently in his arms; when she is filled with good cheer, he should also share her good cheer. Thus a good marriage is not a matter of one partner obeying the other, but of both partners obeying each other.” 

"This is proves my point," Agnes murmurs weakly, handing the phone back. "I don't even know him anymore."

Charles makes a disapproving sound. "He would never have gotten this way without you, Agnes."

She ducks her head. "I've been an awful example."

"But one nonetheless. It's true, marriage is not the place for evangelization. But that doesn't mean it doesn't happen there. And that doesn't mean you shouldn't embrace it when it happens. Whatever Tom's faults, whatever responsibility he has for getting you two to this place, and yes, I know his fault is grave, he truly wants to make it right. So it's kind of an old cliché, isn't it?" Charles shoves the phone back into his breast pocket. "You have to decide. Ultimately, it comes down to deciding to trust him again. If you need more time, then fine. But it's a leap of faith, Agnes, and you have to decide whether to take it or not."

"I've heard this a million times," she hisses. "I did decide."

"No, you didn't." To her infuriation, he actually smirks. "You declared something entirely different. But if you own up to what this is, and can say it out loud -- well then, I shall respect, and support, your decision." With that he excuses himself and leaves the house, nodding briefly at Angie as she comes down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking it's going to be about 30 chapters when this is done. So we are heading for the finish line.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes struggles to cope with the aftermath of her choice.

Agnes totters on the edge of an abyss. It's not like before, where she was desperate and drowning. Now that the ax has fallen, she feels like she's been beheaded, but has somehow lived through her own death. 

In her worst nightmare of nightmares, she worries that when she dies, she will find there was nothing. No reason, no reward, nothing to make the pain worth enduring. It's a natural fear, a natural doubt, and she battles it regularly.

Today she finds no reason.

Malcolm comes and they spend some time talking, but Agnes has little to say, and other than attempting to steady her, there is little the doctor can do. He speaks mostly to Angie about keeping her moving, keeping her active, not letting her sit around. It's a bit of a repeat of some months back, and Angela knows the drill.

Surprisingly, Agnes snaps out of the physical shock the next morning. Inside she feels blank and empty, but her body is restless and refuses to lie down and imitate its inner state. There is some kind of freedom in acceptance. There is a peace in knowing you've hit the bottom. There is simply nowhere to go but up. Or at least nothing to do but wait until you can. 

Agnes rummages through her phone, deleting things in her strange twitchy state. Extra pictures, extra documents that are no longer needed. She sucks in her teeth as if stung when she stumbles across images of Tom and immediately backs out, winding up in her Kindle account. She thumbs through the collection of books, wondering if there's something there she can read to occupy her meandering brain. 

Her finger lands on a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets. Tom had downloaded it to her phone ages ago. He'd bookmarked several of them, telling her to read them when she started to get lonely, if either of them were away. In a moment of madness, she opens the book...

...and promptly deletes all the bookmarks.

She scans through it hastily, and then winds up landing on number 152.  
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,  
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing;  
In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,  
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.  
But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee,  
When I break twenty? I am perjur’d most;  
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,  
And all my honest faith in thee is lost:  
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,  
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy;  
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,  
Or made them swear against the thing they see;  
For I have sworn thee fair; more perjur’d I,  
To swear against the truth so foul a lie!

Truth was, this was what drove her nuts about sonnets. She doesn't mind things that require the reader to put work into understanding the message, but Shakespeare has always been difficult for her to decipher. In college, she'd managed to develop enough of an ear to get by but until Tom, she had no real love of it. She could appreciate the tropes and archetypes, but without Tom to interpret, most of the time she was lost. 

This sonnet seems to stir something in her. It's the particular lines: "By why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee/ When I break twenty? I am perjur'd most/ For all my vows are oaths by to misuse thee/ And all my honest faith in thee is lost."

Tom betrayed her, but she feels far more responsible for their state than even his infidelity caused. And it feels to her like the Writer is saying the same things her heart accuses her of. But then she stares at it, re-reads it over and over, and realizes it's quite the reverse. The Writer blames himself for the infidelity because he hates himself for ever having trusted the lover to begin with? Is that it? That the lover was never worthy of trust and the Writer was a fool to give it? 

Well, that certainly wasn't true. She didn't feel, even then, when she was so burned by his straying, like a fool for ever having loved him. She never felt Tom was unworthy of her love. 

She flips back a few, and comes upon. Shakespeare Sonnet number 149.

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,  
When I against myself with thee partake?  
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot  
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?  
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?  
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?  
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend  
Revenge upon myself with present moan?  
What merit do I in myself respect,  
That is so proud thy service to despise,  
When all my best doth worship thy defect,  
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?  
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;  
Those that can see thou lov'st and I am blind.

Oh Tom, she thinks. She can practically hear his voice in her head, speaking this to her as if it were his own words, not Shakespeare's. 

//Take it back,// a voice whispers to her. //You know how to reach him. He's still here in the States, he could be here in moments. You could tell him you were wrong. He wouldn't even hesitate.//  
Agnes steels herself, feeling the wave pass. She knows she did not choose this path lightly. She knew it would not be easy. She grits her teeth and stirs herself to put down the damn phone, close the app, find something else to do. 

So she starts to write. She picks up the novel she had considered beginning, and starts to peck out the first few hesitant chapters. 

She starts with Natalie, the best friend of the actress. Truth was, all those years ago, Agnes had been terrified to meet Tom. She had built up an idea of who he was in her head and she was sure he'd turn out to be a jerk. Sure, he had a superb image, he was a pro at making people see what he wanted them to see, and hid his private self. She knew he was a bit of a player -- okay, a lot of a player -- and was honestly afraid she was going to find out he'd had a one night stand with Angie, who was a bit looser in her morals in those days. Or if not Angie, another one of their mutual actress friends. So many of them were beautiful and reckless, and Tom was pretty much irresistible. 

When it didn't happen, it was a bit disconcerting.

So now Agnes is going to rewrite history for the sake of her sanity. She knows when to use truth and when to fabricate it. She knows when to twist and when to be real.  
How should she do it? Should Tom's character (named after some variation of a character or his own name) be blatant about it? Should he just come in and think everyone is like him, nobody cares, it's just a big free-for-all, and then be horrified to learn how badly Natalie has judged him? Discarded him and discounted him as not worth her time?  
How would Natalie even know him? Perhaps she and the actress were friends of many years, when they both came from the Midwest. Agnes considers using Indiana but instead swerves a bit more south, to Kentucky. She always liked the Kentucky accent. The actress -- Madeline, Maddy for short -- goes to L.A. first and winds up becoming successful after some years of struggling, and Natalie, who was rather unhappy teaching for a public school district in Kentucky, is invited to live with her best friend (much like Angie took Agnes in) in her too-big Beverly Hills or Malibu house, Agnes isn't sure which. Natalie leaves her job in disgust to look for work in L.A., winds up at a nice Catholic school that pays more than the Midwest job, but the cost of living is so high that Maddy says Natalie can live with her for as long as she wants, until she can find just the right place. 

So this would put Natalie in the path of whichever actors and actresses Maddy knew. If she was part of Maddy's entourage.

No, Natalie isn't like that, Agnes decides. Not entourage. Natalie mostly keeps to herself. Maybe there was another actor that Natalie liked who was a big jerk to both her and Maddy, and since being burned Natalie wants to keep away from any of Maddy's work associates. And then enters Henry. 

Yes, Henry. That was one of Agnes' favorite roles of all time. She'd prefer Hal but maybe that would be too obvious. 

Hank. Oh, how lovely. She'd call him Hank, even though he was British and no Brit named Henry would be caught dead being called Hank, but she'd do it just to antagonize him.

Agnes' brain is now in gear and the story starts to develop. 

For the time, it's enough to keep her going.  
\------------------------

That Sunday, after Mass, Agnes wanders out toward her car, brain in high gear. 

She's at the scene where Natalie discovers that Henry has slept with one of her friends, but Henry has no idea that Natalie knows, and doesn't understand why she would care. He is under the impression that she can't stand him, and little does he know, he's just cemented that feeling. Natalie doesn't want to like him, she's angry at herself for liking him as much as she does, and she's incredibly hurt that he would ever do such a thing, but she also knows she has no entitlement to be hurt, that he didn't do anything to her.

So generally, she's just absolutely disgusted with him. And wants to freeze him out. But Henry won't allow it. There is going to be a big confrontation and then she and Henry will not see each other or even speak to each other for nearly five years, when he and Maddy wind up working together again.

"Agnes?" comes that Irish lilt. She shakes herself from her daydreams. When she's in this mode her brain is constantly elsewhere. Colm is approaching her across the parking lot. "You're not joining us today?"  
She smiles at him, shakes her head. Colm was supposed to come by earlier in the week but she had cancelled in a text, apologizing but unable to talk. She feels bad avoiding him, but quite frankly she can't be around Charles at this moment. It's been a week since what happened with Tom, and even looking at Charles makes it feel like it's not as final she desperately wants it to be.

"That's too bad. I was looking forward to talking shop some more," he says. 

"Actually," Agnes says, "we could, but..." she glanced toward the group. "Well, if you have other plans...I just don't feel like being in a big group right now."

Colm brightens. "It's not a problem, Agnes, I'll just tell them something came up. We can meet anywhere you like."

So she tells him to meet her at one of her favorite restaurants, which she knows nobody else likes but her. Within a half hour she and Colm are talking about her novel. She doesn't go into detail about the current storyline she's working on, but instead switches to the aspect that she knows she's going to have trouble with, the fantasy novel written by the divorced writer, another version of herself.

"The thing is," Agnes says, "I sort of see it like Joan of Arc meets 'Canticle for Lebowitz.' You familiar with that one?"

"Maybe. I'm pretty well read. Remind me."

"It takes place in a future that's basically us. We've had some kind of nuclear war, and society has had to rebuild, and it starts off rather tribal, and all these artifacts from our current time are sort of seen as fascinating and valuable by these people. Then it goes to an advanced time in this timeline, where it's more medieval, and then a pre-nuclear war again, where the mistakes of the past are about to repeat themselves. In each time period, however, what is consistent is the Church. The Church survives, and is the center, basically, of how new civilization emerges, but toward the last arc, the Church is being ignored again, very much like it is today, as it tries to warn people of imminent destruction."

"Okay, so you're thinking some post-apocalyptic, with the Church being at the center of the rebuilding of society?"

"Yes, exactly. And the groups have sort of splintered into something like kingdoms. I keep seeing it as a return to monarchy, of course I keep picturing the fifteen hundreds but of course it can't be exactly like that."

"I see where you're going. So where does Joan of Arc come in?"

"Well, she's an orphan, her family was killed in a massacre, and she was taken in by the Queen, who's a very holy person who has set up a home for orphans in the main castle structure itself. She winds up working in the castle itself and becomes close to some of the royal family members -- and the youngest prince, but they're all a bunch of stupid adolescents and his brothers start pressuring him to take advantage of her, because that's what some of his older brothers do, they basically treat the women servants like whores."

"Oh dear."

"Well, there's an incident where she ends up fleeing, and she basically disappears underneath the castle. There's a series of old tunnels and whatnot down there, and when the Queen realizes she's missing, she demands a search be made. The youngest prince feels horribly guilty so he fesses up to his mom about where the girl went, but nobody can find her. And something like two years later, she suddenly emerges from under the castle while a rival group is attacking it."

"And--?"

"She winds up helping to fight off the invaders. Get a big cluster of them singlehandedly."

"Superhero stuff," Colm says.

Agnes shrugs. "How does this orphan peasant girl who's been missing for two years know how to fight like an expert swordsman? Now, I don't want her to be having audio conversations with angels and whatnot, but I do want her prone to visions, and that while she was lost underground, what actually happened was like a 'led into the desert' sort of thing where she was...imbued, I guess, with the spirit of a fighter. That's why I thought of Joan of Arc, the idea of a peasant girl with no experience other than the influence of God, leading an army. This is the fantasy novel, it's going to come out in excerpts mostly to illustrate points."

"Usually," Colm says thoughtfully, "when a writer does that, it's to create some overall theme, some overall message. What are you exactly trying to say with all of it?"

Agnes considers his for a moment. "That sometimes the happier path is the one that does not require you to be with the one you love." And then for some reason she is choking back tears.

Before she realizes quite what is happening, Colm is holding her hand, offering her a clean napkin, holding her glass of ice water for her to sip, which she does. 

"I'm sorry," she manages. "I don't know...I'm sorry."

"Please don't apologize," Colm says, his tone and eyes so warm, and Agnes feels a flutter of true comfort. "I don't want to ask you anything to personal, of course you don't have to answer, but I know that you're having issues---"

"With my husband, yes," she finishes for him. "Just out of curiosity, did Charles tell you or someone else?"

"Truth is, it's in the supermarket tabloids. Although your American ones are decidedly less vicious than England's. The latest rumor is that you're getting divorced."

"It's not a rumor," she says, ending with a hiccup. "It's true. It...we decided last week."

**Decided.** How wrong that word sounds. They didn't decide. She's screamed it at him in the heat of battle and then they'd sobbed it out. She hasn't laid eyes on Tom since, she doesn't even know if he's in town still. 

"I'm very sorry," Colm says, because it's the thing to say.

Her thing to say back, she realizes, is something along the lines of, "It's okay." But it isn't. It is not. "I've done everything wrong," she murmurs. "Everything. I can't seem to stop. I tell myself I'm going to be better, but then I do things wrong again."

"What did you do wrong?" he asks, then stops himself. "You don't have to tell me--"

"I married him when I knew I shouldn't. I knew the kind of man he was, I knew how things would clash between us. Sparks are fine for a while but day to day, who can live with that? And somewhere along the line I let my insecurities get between us. I let things get stale and boring. I abused...certain marital rights." (she isn't going to tell him about how she had allowed their sexual relationship to go sideways) "And then when it all went to hell, I blamed him for everything. I kept stringing him along and then when I decided it was time for us to stop I told him in the worst possible way."

She lets out her breath. Listing her sins is getting exhausting, she thinks.

Colm scowls. "I hope you'll forgive what I'm about to say, but...wasn't he unfaithful to you?"

She nods. "Twice, technically. Only once sexually. But...yes."

"And didn't he...didn't he just sort of burst in on your gathering last week, in somewhat of a jealous rage?"

"Is that in the tabloids too?"

Colm nods. "And you're not blaming him for anything, from what I'm hearing. You're blaming yourself."

She sighs. "Yes. Now I am. At first I only blamed him."

"That's completely natural, when one's betrayed," Colm said. 

"Do you speak from experience?"

Colm gave an awkward little shrug. "Had a very dear friend turn on me. Once you loose the one person you value the most in all the world, it changes you."

Then, to her utter horror, in that lovely Irish lilt, he starts to quote Shakespeare's sonnet number 90.

**Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;  
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,  
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,  
And do not drop in for an after-loss:  
Ah! do not, when my heart hath ‘scap’d this sorrow,  
Come in the rearward of a conquer’d woe;  
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,  
To linger out a purpos’d overthrow.  
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,  
When other petty griefs have done their spite,  
But in the onset come: so shall I taste  
At first the very worst of fortune’s might;  
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,  
Compar’d with loss of thee will not seem so.**

She stares at him, her hand pressed to her forehead. //Are you fucking kidding me right now?//

"After that," Colm says, undertones in his voice she can relate to, "you learn pretty fast not to let small things bother you. You learn to appreciate more important events."

"Is that why you always seem so unaffected by everything?" Agnes asks. "I thought it was just part of being Irish."

He chuckles. "Oh, being Irish is the opposite of unaffected," Colm says before sipping his coffee. 

Agnes stares at him, and has a sudden rush of feeling that leave her quite self-conscious. She recognizes it immediately, although can't quite believe it's there. It's that school-girl feeling of shyness. 

Of course she would like Colm. He just quoted freaking Shakespeare at her. He's got an accent, albeit different from the one she's used to. And he's sweet and low-key, the absolutely opposite of all the intensity she's faced in these last days. He's wounded, as well, which creates a sense of empathy within her. 

It's just...circumstances, she tells herself, shaking it off. Nothing else.

"Not to switch the subject back to abruptly," Colm says, "but the Joan of Arc character from before. What did you want to call her?"

"Verity," Agnes replies. "I'm not sure why."

"Truth," Colm comments. "Appropriate. So you mentioned that her theme is about giving up love? Joan of Arc with a love story?"

"She can't accept the love of the man, the youngest prince. When she returns, he falls very much in love with her, but she refuses to be wed to anyone. Her strength, what makes her the way she is, is her purity. She can't marry anyone, she isn't called to it, and there are other plot points, at one point they try to force her into the marriage, and she runs away."

"Hmmm."

"The basic thing I need help with is how to construct the world they live in. I want medieval but I don't want historical. I don't know how to set everything up."

"I can make some suggestions."

"We can pay you a fee, it's not an issue. You'll get paid for your work and a credit in the book. It will help when you're trying to get published on your own."

He gives her a smile. "That's not what I'm doing it for, but that's fine."

\---------------------------------

That night, Agnes calls Nicolas.

"Is Tom still there?" she asks him.

Nicolas hems a bit. "He...he stayed with me a day, then some people came to get him. I think his personal assistant was among them. He said he was going to check into a hotel. He didn't say when he was going back to London." 

Agnes' brain searches its memory banks. Ashleigh was his assistant in the States, when he needed one. She would have contacted his managing agency, they would have sent the publicists in to clean up the mess. Get Tom to a safe place, keep him from doing something reckless.

If only they'd gotten to him sooner, she thinks.

She thanks Nick, and rings off.

Agnes paces the length of her room several times. Should she call Tom? Should she leave it as it is? Was she fair to him? She doesn't know. 

She thought making the decision would lift a weight from her. Now it's starting to feel heavier than ever.

She has an appointment with Malcolm tomorrow. She decides to wait and ask him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I see the end in sight. I'm determined to finish this within the next two weeks. I'm up to Chapter 28 and foresee possibly 30-odd chapters.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes sees Tom again. It's not what she expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but important.

"What do you want to say to him?"

"I...I want to make sure he's okay?" Agnes ventures.

It's obvious that Malcolm is struggling not to sigh. "He's not okay, Agnes. His marriage just ended. You're not okay either. And if you do talk to him, he's going to try to convince you to change your mind."

"How do you know that, have you talked to him?"

"I've talked to Dr. Summers, who talked to Tom's therapist, Dr. MacGregor," Malcolm explained. "She wants you to call her, she would have contacted you sooner but I wanted you to have time to just cool off. Let things settle in your head."

"I'm just worried about him," Agnes says. "He was so upset."

"Yes, but he has to cope. He's not your responsibility at this time."

"He is my responsibility!" Agnes protests. "He's still my husband, officially."

Malcolm shakes his head. "You can't have it both ways, Agnes. If you keep showing concern, if you keep involving yourself with him, he isn't going to accept your decision."

Agnes struggles with her anger. She doesn't get angry at Malcolm often, and knows he's just doing his job. "I can't just switch things off, like...like..."

"Like a switch?" 

She bites back the word //asshole.// "I haven't started any legal proceedings, and I'm going to investigate the possibility of an annulment, but Tom was...he got really upset when I suggested that."

"Regardless of the process, in the event of a breakup, the worst thing the couple can do is still cling to each other. You have to have distance in order for things to set in. It's a mentality that needs to be adapted. I am not with this person anymore. I know that your emotions are valid, and so are his. And there will be opportunities for communications. But not now. Unless you think you wish to change your mind. Otherwise it just gives false hope."

Agnes falls silent.

"Do you want to change your mind, Agnes?"

"Isn't it normal?" she says dully. "Isn't it normal to want to take it back, even if you've agonized over the decision, to make sure it was the right thing to do? Isn't it normal to have second thoughts?"

"Yes. You have to determine if they're real or if they're residue from the emotional trauma."

"How do I know?"

"Waiting a period of time is helpful. I know it's difficult, but there is a certain benefit to simply letting things lie as they are. Once some time has passed, revisiting the issue to see if you've made the correct choice--"

"It's been a week. I just...I just want to check on him."

Malcolm sighs. "You need a third party. Is there someone who can act as a go-between?"

Agnes grunts. "Charles would do it. He's been in contact with Tom most of this time."

Malcolm scribbles some notes. "You've mentioned that Charles was against you marrying Tom. Why is he in contact with him?"

"I suspect it was Tom's doing. He was sending me messages. Not from him, but...quotations. From saints. That were appropriate." Agnes watches him writing. "Do you think it was a manipulation?"

"Well, he did use Charles as a go-between. Which indicates that he picked someone who wouldn't be biased in his favor. Did these messages come as soon as Tom sent them? Did Charles tell you they came from him?"

"Not until after...last week. And Charles only sent me things as they were appropriate. He showed me one he hadn't used yet."

Malcolm nods thoughtfully. "It sounds genuine. If Tom was being manipulative he would have used someone who was pushing for your reunion. Choosing Charles shows respect for your choices." He's thoughtful for a moment. "Have you talked to Charles? I mean, since he seemed to be initially against you and Tom, does he have an opinion on your break-up?"

"He's against it," Agnes says shortly. After a few moments silence, she relates as much as she can remember of what Charles said to her. It's surprisingly accurate. 

"Doesn't that strike you as strange?" Malcolm says. "That a person who was against your marriage now seems to be against your divorce?"

"What, you think it's a sign?"

"I'm considering that you think it's a sign. It could be making you doubt yourself, doubt your decision, adding to the current stress."

"Charles was never //against// me marrying Tom, he just...doubted the wisdom of it. But he's still been supportive and he's never spoken against Tom in the time we were... married."

"So now you're defending Charles."

"It's not like he has a stake in this. He's just a friend, a very smart, wise friend. He has nothing to gain or lose by whoever I marry or divorce."

"Yes. I know."

"And he's usually right. I've rarely known him to be wrong."

"All right."

"And he didn't interfere at all with me and Tom. Even when we were fighting...I mean, he wasn't being a busybody. I usually ask him what he thinks. This is one of the rare times he gave his opinion unsolicited. He's always supported me, no matter what."

"And what does that tell you?"

"That he's looking out for the best. And in his opinion, the best thing is to stay married and continue to work through it."

"But you don't want to."

"It isn't that." Her throat tightens. "I just think it's all doing more harm than good. More damage and no healing. The cure is worse than the disease." She pauses, drawing a heavy, wet breath. "I really do want to see him."

"Would you trust Charles to arrange it? Chaperone it, even? Just for the sake of avoiding more conflict. I would suggest a public place."

Agnes' eyes narrow. "Tom is a celebrity. In public we'd have no privacy. And things are already scattering over the tabloids."

"Well, supervised at the very least. It seems the two of you can't go through a simple conversation without it exploding. That's what worries me, Agnes. The volatility of this. You can't seem to find any equilibrium, any steady ground from which to work. Only from there can you make reasonable decisions. I'm not saying you were either correct or incorrect in your choice. But from where you make the choice counts for as much as the choice you make."

"So I might not have been ready to make the choice on whether to stay or go?"

"Perhaps. But now that you've made it, and are going to act on it, it may create some solid ground. Being apart from someone on a semi-permanent basis makes us often realize many things we wouldn't if in their presence."

"But Tom and I were separated."

"And yet whenever you did see each other, even over a computer screen, inevitably something happened to create more unstable emotions. Without that, without even the possibility of that, it may create steady ground from which you can make real decisions for your future."

\--------------------

It isn't easy for Agnes to ask Charles, but she does. She knows he won't say no, not after the things he said to her that awful evening. Even when she makes it clear she's not going to change her mind...at this time. 

It is not surprising how gracious Charles is about it, but it is surprising that he offers his own home for them to meet. And the meeting is arranged within the next forty-eight hours.

When she arrives, she is surprised to find that Tom is already there. She half expects him to pounce on her the second she walks through the door. 

Charles' condo is decorated in dark woods, giving the whole place a very masculine, classical air. Tom is seating at the dining room table, his legs splayed out under the table, his hands folded neatly in front of him. He is wearing his usual -- black pants, a white shirt, and a suit coat. California springs have a tendency to feel more like summers, but Charles likes the air conditioning high and Agnes is happy to have brought a cardigan with her. 

Tom stands when she enters the room. She looks at his face and is stunned to see him as healthy-looking as he is. She doesn't quite know what she expected, Tom looked gaunt and pale when he'd shown up in Angie's kitchen. But now his cheeks have color, and his eyes are smiling when he looks at her. 

"Hello, Aggie," he says warmly.

This is nothing like she expected. She was half prepared for him to throw himself at her feet and beg, but...

Maybe she did make the right choice.

"Hi, Tom," she replies, coming over to him. 

Without preamble, Tom takes her into his arms. He pulls her in tightly -- Tom has always hugged everybody and everyone, from before she ever knew him. Sometimes it caused her a certain amount of resentment, the way he gave so much of himself away, physically, until she began to realize that not every hug from Tom was the same.

This hug is hers. He tucks her in as close to his chest as he can, his face pressing between her shoulder and neck. She feels his breath on her skin, then the sensation of him inhaling. There is not even room for air between them.

Agnes suddenly feels like she is reliving every single hug she's ever received from him. The first one, when she didn't want to hug him, didn't want him to touch her but couldn't figure out how to stop him before he had her imprisoned in his arms. The other hugs when she tried to keep half her body away but somehow, even with just her side pressed against him, he had smothered her entire form between those long, winding arms. The hugs when they started dating and she wouldn't let things go too far between them physically, and he'd satisfied himself by holding her as long as he could, until she squirmed to get away, because it was too much, being that close to someone so beautiful and not being able to love them properly. Then her own embraces, from behind and the side and the times she'd attacked his shoulders and kissed the back of his neck, making him squirm. The first time she'd ever hugged him without any clothing on, feeling every inch of her body fused to his. How often he'd hugged her during their marriage, and then, the slow decline, the slow distance, when hugs started to feel like tokens instead of real acts of affection. The first time he'd hugged her after her discovery, how every hug since then had felt like an apology, a plea. How he'd hugged her after the first time they made love, in that hotel room, his body on top of hers, but she wouldn't let him roll off and he didn't seem to want to, except for his fear of crushing her, so they'd rolled slightly to the side and fallen asleep like that, their hold only being finally slackened by exhaustion.

All of this flashes in a few seconds, before the pressure is released and she feels stripped as the weight of his body leaves her. 

You're saying goodbye, she realizes, and she looks up at him, suddenly afraid.

He smiles at her. "Charles said you were worried about me."

"Well, things were...very harsh."

He nods. "I know. Nick let me stay at his place a few days but I didn't want to impose on him, so I had some people come get me. And I've been talking to Dr. MacGregor. And..." he draws a heavy breath. "I respect your decision, Agnes."

Suddenly she is backpedaling. Why is she suddenly disappointed that Tom isn't fighting her? She's wanting nothing but the fighting to stop, and now that it has...

What is wrong with her?

"It's a decision we should have made together," she hears herself saying. "It's our marriage, not just mine."

He nods. "I know. I agree. But..." He reaches up, gently placing his hands on either side of her neck, thumbs tracing her jawline, "I want you to be happy. I know these last months, this last year, have been hell. And you deserve to be happy. I don't want to stand in the way of that. I've been...trying to force you. Trying to change you, change us, into something we aren't. I've been emotional and unreasonable."

She shakes her head. "You haven't been unreasonable."

"I've pushed too hard," he confesses. "I've pushed you. I'm not going to push anymore, I promise. I respect your choice. I did what I could when there was a chance, but...this isn't fair to you, Agnes." He withdraws his hands, puts them in his pockets. "I want so many good things for you." He looks away, and she can see it straining, in his eyes -- the hint of tears, the emotions he is forcing down in the face of this calm. Those brilliant blue eyes finally return to her. "I will always... always love you. That won't change."

She wants to tell him she loves him, too. But she can't. She can't say anything that doesn't sound like a repeat of what she told him that night. She feels repeating it will be like pushing the blade in farther. 

Finally, she says it. "You're too calm, Tom. You've been a coil of nerves for months, and now you're just...accepting it?"

For a moment, it flickers. His lips twist so slightly and she can see words struggling to form, but he swallows it. "Agnes," he says, his voice so sad, but still serene, "what can I do? I can't make you...I want what is best for you. I've been selfish. And I want to stop."

Is this how she's sounded, all this time? Does she believe him? She wants to...she knows Tom when he's acting, and this isn't it. This is real. 

"I want to do the right thing," he says, drawing a shuddering breath. One hand comes from his pocket to wipe at his lips, his neck, a nervous gesture meant to steady him. "You've...you have no idea the things you've given me, all these years. I hardly knew them myself until all this started. The things you've inspired in me...and now it's time for me to stop hiding and being a child and grow up. It's time for me to stop learning and start...BEING." He accentuates the word with both hands open in a grasping gesture. Then they fall wide, as if to embrace her again. "Whatever it is. Whatever I become. It's because of you, all the good things. And I can't do any of it if I keep insisting on holding on to you when...when maybe you were never mine to hold onto, to begin with."

To hear it that way...to hear him say the response to all the things she's been wondering to herself all this time...if they ever should have been married...

It hurts more than anything else. She thinks she's going to crumble into dust.

But she nods. She gathers the strength and nods. 

"Thank you, Tom," she whispers.

The tears in his eyes thicken. "May I kiss you?" he whispers back.

She lets him bend down and he grasps her by the cheeks. The kiss is not heavy, not passionate. It feels like most of their goodbye kisses, when he's leaving for a film or she's leaving on a book tour. It's firm, and loving, but it ends.

"I love you, Tom," she says.

"I love you, Aggie." And he leaves. Not just the room, or the house. But her life.

That night, when she opens her phone and aimlessly wanders to the Shakespeare sonnets, she finds that somehow a new bookmark has been placed.

She knows she didn't put it there. And then she remembers that some of the apps on her phone and Tom's are linked, and that whatever bookmarks he put would be the same that would be on his own phone. So when she removed all the bookmarks, she unraveled his own personal system. A flush of guilt washes over her, and then she sees the sonnet he marked. Number 87.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,   
And like enough thou know’st thy estimate:  
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;  
My bonds in thee are all determinate.   
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?   
And for that riches where is my deserving?   
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,   
And so my patent back again is swerving.  
Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,   
Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;  
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,   
Comes home again, on better judgment making.   
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,   
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for leaving reviews! I'm behind but I will respond to them all! Both this week and last! Thank you!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One thing the media loves -- a good scandal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have not responded to any of the comments from Ch. 25 because to say anything would be spoilerish. So if I don't reply to your comment it's because I don't want to risk spoiling how this is going to go. Of course that might have been spoilerish in itself, so....

**So is Tom Hiddleston a bachelor again?

The renowned actor was spotted looking sharp last week at the premiere of his friend Benedict Cumberbatch's London premiere of //The Tempest.//

Nobody could get a good look at his hand to see if he was wearing his wedding ring, but sources close to the actor say that he and wife Agnes haven't been in contact for a month. Although no divorce papers have been filed on either side of the pond, they are no longer attending therapy.

Hiddleston was seen sharing a drink with Cumberbatch and some others at a pub close to the theater, being his usual charming self. If he's suffering from being newly single, it certainly isn't showing.**

"You should never look at those things. It's just trash talk."

Agnes doesn't even know how she got a hold of the magazine. It was in a bunch of papers sent over by her publicist, who, as usual, is still in contact with Tom's people. She glances up at Angie and then tosses the magazine aside. They aren't wrong about how Tom looks, whatever else they may be lying about. The magazine glossy showed him in one of his traditional suits, sans a tie, and his smile is as it ever was. 

She tries to tell herself that that is Tom. Tom always puts his best foot forward. He does not let his private side show, certainly not to the media. Whatever he may be feeling, he won't let it affect how others view him. It had taken her a long time to reconcile that outer charming shell with the vulnerable, insecure, wounded creature within. At least some things haven't changed.

Agnes wonders if Tom is still wearing his ring. None of the pictures even gave a decent view of his left hand. She isn't wearing hers. She'd removed it right after coming back from Charles' place, when Tom had told her goodbye.

It's a beautiful day, too beautiful to be sitting around feeling sorry for herself. Out on Angie's patio, the two enjoy a quick lunch while sorting through their various junk -- Agnes with edits and contract details and various information it's thought wise for her to know, and Angie with the final draft of the script she and Chris Evans have been studying before principal filming finally begins. 

Chris continues to feel awful about his hand in her explosion with Tom, no matter how many times Agnes reassures him he was not at fault. When Chris finally stopped apologizing to her, she suspected that Tom had talked to him and the two had made up. But still, every now and then when he looks at her, she can feel the guilt.

What really doesn't help is the fact that she hasn't done one thing to move forward the legal proceedings. Her lawyer and her agent have both asked her repeatedly to take a step, but...

...she...

....can't.

Some kind of inertia has settled over her. A frozen, numb kind of feeling. Shifting too much to one side, it feels like pain, but shifting to the other, it feels like some kind of holding pattern, like she's waiting for something to move her. Some outside force? She has no idea. She knows there isn't anything coming. 

What is it going to take? She's made the choice. Why can't she //act// on it?

To her surprise, she is actually a bit angry at Tom. She can't figure it out. It isn't the cheating anymore, although that anger still lingers. But if he hadn't...they would still be continuing to just drift around each other, their misery unknown to them but still present, still seeping into everything. 

And shit like that article doesn't make her feel better. The fact that Tom seems to have picked himself up and moved on...grates on her. Especially after all they've been through in the last several months. All the shouting and begging and fighting and pleading and dramatic acts and his continuous, nagging plea for her to just come back to him for God's sake and try again, why can't you...

Now. Nothing.

He'd hugged her, kissed her goodbye. He was done.

Fucker.

But she determinedly tells herself that she's being unfair to him. This is what she wanted, what she chose. He didn't want it like this. He'd wanted them to try again. He'd wanted to continue therapy, wanted the separation to lift. Her mind relentlessly lists off all his deeds -- the emails, the pleas during therapy, the outbursts when she hinted this was where she was going to go, the sudden appearances at her doorstep or in her bedroom with more impassioned entreaties for her to return to him. A wicked, paranoid voice wants to whisper "reverse psychology?" at her but she silences it with the full knowledge that Tom doesn't play chicken with his real life. 

So why does it hurt more that he seems to have accepted it? She's being unjust in expecting him to persist. She's being unreasonable. Irrational.

Then she makes herself stop thinking about it and throws herself into writing that damn novel that takes up every waking hour of her day.

"Look," Angie says delicately, breaking Agnes' stream of thought, "I know you've been preoccupied, but I wanted to ask your help with some wedding stuff."

Angela and Nicolas had finally set a date. Late October. It was going to be a Halloween-ish wedding, nothing too ghastly. At least the dresses weren't going to be orange and black -- more like a deep, blood-red crimson. A few skulls, but mostly leaves and late autumn decorations. Angela had a wedding planner to help her, as it was a Hollywood wedding, but there were still things the maid of honor had to do.

"Sure," Agnes says, shoving aside her mental meanderings to pay attention to her dear friend. She owes Angela more than she can ever repay, and she will not allow her own wallowing to spoil anything regarding Angela's wedding. 

"Bridesmaid dresses," Angela says. "I had a few nice designs picked out." She pulls out a folder. Beautiful glosses slip out and Angie organizes them into an array on the table. "This one," she says, pointing to the third one on the top row, "is what I thought you might like the best."

It's a very modest dress. Scoop neck, no cleavage showing. The top is black, apparently velvet, and of a criss-cross pattern with some kind of design in the middle. High waist with a trim of crystals, also mimicked on the edges of the three quarter sleeves. From the belt down, it's a solid deep red, so deep it's almost the shade of wine.

Agnes gives the others cursory glances, but Angela is right. It's the best one. 

"I can order one for you to try on," Angela goes on. "May take a week, shouldn't be more than that. Think I can pry you away from the laptop long enough to get you down to the wedding planner's office?

"Sure," Agnes replies. "Anything else I need to do?"

"Well, when we get a bit closer, typical maid of honor duties involve the wedding shower, the bachelorette party, that kind of stuff. But that's not until fall so..." She trails off.

"Anything you need, Angie, I'm here. At least in town. I can't keep living here indefinitely, especially now that you're engaged. I need to find my own place."

Agnes doesn't realize she drifts off at the end of that statement. Divorce. New apartment. Things she can't seem to wrap her brain around enough to actually take action. The thought of finding an apartment makes her sick. 

Her phone goes off. Colm's name appears on the screen, no picture. She can't quite bring herself to get that personal with him, for some reason. But she answers.

"Hi, Colm," she says as she gets up and heads into the kitchen.

"Hi, Agnes," Colm replies. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I have to cancel lunch tomorrow."

Agnes knows she's spending too much time with this man. It's partly a writer's thing, finding a willing beta, someone to give you feedback and feed the ego as well. She knows he's light on the criticism but he's not unfair or biased, and he's been an enormous help. They were meeting to go over some notes for the fantasy novel that runs as a thread parallel to the other plots. 

"That's fine. Maybe after Mass this Sunday?"

"I'm afraid it's going to be a bit longer than a few days," he replies. "My grams just passed away, I have to go back to merry ole' Ireland, it'll be a few weeks at best."

"Oh." She feels disappointed. Talking to Colm is a good distraction. With him it feels like her life is more than just some giant angst-ridden drama. 

"But as soon as I get back, we can go over it. I'm sure you'll get a bunch more done while I'm gone, you've got other storylines to work on."

"Yeah. Staying busy is always the plan. Well, safe travels."

"Thanks, love. Take care."

Agnes stares at the phone for several moments, lost in thought. Why is she so disappointed? It's more than she expected, to feel like this. She always hates cancelled plans, but the tang of this is something...

The phone goes off in her hands, scaring a few years out of her. She gathers herself and swipes the answer button.

"Yeah?"

"Agnes." It's Richard. Richard is her main publicity person, the one who handles appearances, events, anything having to do with the public. He's also the one who gives her news about stories about her -- when she made the best sellers list, he told her. When her books were being considered for movie scripts, he told her. And he was also the one who told her when her relationship with Tom went public and what all the media was saying.

Richard is her media mouthpiece. Usually he sends one of the lackies to keep her up to date but when he calls, it's big. Sometimes good, sometimes bad.

"Hi, Richard," Agnes says, her stomach starting to flatten against her intestines. "What's going on?"

"There's something you should know about. It's not made it to the gossip rags here, but it's on its way over and you needed a heads up."

Agnes feels like her head is stuck in a fog, filled with pictures. Tom is being linked to someone. That innocent piece she read earlier was just the beginning. He got drunk in that bar, hooked up with someone. Worse, he was on a date. He's already dating and it's only been a month. They got pictures of kissing, a walk of shame, some first hand reports of how the two lovers were fawning all over each other in that bar or restaurant. 

"I'm sending you a link to the article. Are you near your computer?"

Silly question, she can access the internet from her phone while talking, but the computer is better, she knows that. She mutters something, stumbles up the stairs to her desk. The laptop is on already, she just needs to click her email button and find Richard's name.

//Has Tom Hiddleston's estranged wife already moved on?//

The picture underneath is of her and Colm. It's from a week ago, when she and Colm had dinner to talk about where the fantasy story was going. Both of them are smiling, animatedly talking. 

Agnes feels she's about to pass out. 

The next picture is of them leaving the restaurant. Colm's hand is reaching toward hers, and it looks like they're holding hands. But Agnes knows it's just from where he was handing her the keys she dropped. Worse, the picture has been circled in red to show that not only is she holding this strange man's hand, but her ring is missing from her left hand. 

"Fuck," she whispers.

"Did you read it?"

She can't even take her eyes from that stupid red circle. Even if she was able to make sense of any of the words she wouldn't absorb them. Her answer is a grunt which should be "no," but doesn't sound like it.

"Well, they're painting it like you've moved on, not even divorced yet but already with someone else, or worse, revenge cheating to get back at Tom, taunt him somehow."

"That isn't true!" she manages to squeak. "I dropped my keys, he picked them up!"

"So you're not dating this guy?"

"He's helping with the new book!" she gets out, feeling like she's screaming in a dream, when her voice won't work but words push out anyway. "It was an innocent dinner, a work dinner!"

"Okay, we're going to run with that. I'll get ahead of this, Agnes, but...they published in London first, knowing that would be the more receptive audience. Tom...maybe already saw this."

Shit. Shit shit shit shit...she can't call him. She feels that would be the worst thing. "Then...contact his people! He needs to know!" She gathers herself, drawing deep breaths. "No, wait, listen..." Maybe those first two words were more for herself, but she pushes on. "Tom doesn't read gossip rags. Unless his people tell him what's being said he does his best to ignore it."

"It's about you, Agnes. He's not going to ignore that."

"Well...they should at least have the courtesy to confirm before shoving that rag in his face!" she shrieks.

Richard has backed away from the phone. She can tell by how far he sounds when he speaks next. "Maybe, Agnes, probably. I'll check. But maybe coming from you---?"

Yes, coming from her. It's justifiable. And also as good an idea as lighting a cherry bomb and putting it in a toilet, thinking the water will put out the fuse before it goes off. 

"No, I can't...it'll do more harm than good. I wouldn't even continue therapy with Dr. Summers, calling him out of the blue to tell him I'm not seeing anybody else? Somebody has to play go be---"

His mother.

She can call his mother.

"Well, see if you can think of someone," Richard says. "I'll do detail on this end, get it back to his people. All right, later." He hangs up.

Agnes stares at her phone again, then catches movement in her peripheral vision, and looks up to see Angie approaching.

Agnes can only point. Angela looks at the article and grimaces, but she doesn't seem surprised.

"You know it isn't true, right?" Agnes says.

"No...I know you wouldn't do it to get back at him."

"No, I mean about me and Colm. Period."

"Period?" Her skeptical tone sets Agnes off.

"Geeze, Angie, what the hell---!"

"I'm sorry!" Angela throws her palms up in a defensive gesture. "I just...you've spent a lot of time with him, and he's young, cute, obviously has a crush on you---"

Agnes just rolls her eyes. "Whatever."

"I'm serious, Aggs! I know you're oblivious to all that stuff. How many times did you tell me I was crazy for thinking Tom had a thing for you? Although I think the exact words were that I was 'deranged for even considering it.'" 

"He's a fan. That's it. He's not crushing on me, he's just being a fanboy."

Angela just sighs. "Well, whatever. You're not interested in him at all?"

Agnes opens her mouth to answer, and was going to say "Hell no!" but then...can't. Her mouth closes at about the same speed it opened. 

Now Angie shrugs. "I'm sorry, Aggs. I know you pretty well and I was seeing the signs. Or maybe your friend just naturally has big brown googly eyes--"

"He has huge eyes," Agnes grumbles.

"Well, okay then. But...does Tom know?"

The pained look on Agnes' face is her answer.

"You want...me to call him?" Angela asks. "Or maybe Nick? Someone close to you, friendly, who will make sure to reassure him?"

Nick. Yes, she should ask Nick to do it. Although..."I don't want to drag him into this drama."

"He took Tom into his home when...trust me, he doesn't mind," Angela redirects herself. "Charles, maybe?"

Agnes cringes. Charles has never ceased being her friend, but lately it's been hard to be around him. But he does know Colm personally and would be the first to assure Tom that it was nothing. Sure he doesn't think there's something going on with her and the Irishman...does he?

"Fuck," Agnes grunts.

"I'll do it," Angela says with finality. "I can probably explain it better than anybody. Everyone else it would be third-hand information." She pulls out her phone. "What time is it in London?"

"They're eight hours ahead," Agnes mumbles. "Wait, you're doing it now?"

"Sooner better than later," Angela replies. "No sense waiting."

Agnes stares at her. The thought of Angie being on the phone with Tom, when Agnes is there, five, ten feet away...hearing the merest echo of that voice, no matter how faint...knowing he's right there, talking to someone and she's hiding like a little coward...

The knife slides through her guts. She doesn't know if she's going to faint or vomit.

"I'm...going to my room. I don't want..."

She doesn't finish the sentence as she stumbles up the stairs.

\-------------------------------

This can't go on.

She has to snap herself out of this. She made a decision. She's going to stick to it, no matter the temptation to retreat. No matter how hard it is, she agonized over this, she dragged it out and now it would be wrong to go back. It would be wrong to play with Tom's emotions like that. He deserves better, he deserves to be happy, and he's recovering, he's doing better than she is...

Only that line doesn't work. She knows how she looked in those pictures. Happy. She was happy for a distraction, she was enjoying Colm's company...

Does she have feelings for the young man?

He's at least ten years younger than her. He's sweet, she adores his accent, he's intelligent, they talk and it's easy, it's relaxing. 

But no. That isn't even a consideration for her. 

It would take a phone call. A phone call to her lawyer to start the process. He'd take care of everything. She'd just have to sign some papers...

And it still wouldn't mean anything. Being in a state of divorce still doesn't free her to remarry. Civil law can't dissolve what God binds together.

And Tom won't agree to an annulment. 

Because even he knows.

They're married. There wasn't any flaw, anything hidden, no mistakes. They were careful, as careful as they could be. And she doesn't buy into the cheap "they just can't be married to each other" argument that would have to be used. 

So like it or not, this is it.

She hears her bedroom door open. Her eyes feel heavy. Did she doze off in the midst of her rambling thoughts? It feels like it. Angela comes around and sits down on the edge of the bed in front of Agnes.

"Hey," Angela whispers, as if it will soften the words. "I talked to Tom. I told him about the article. He said he didn't even know about it, he was just ignoring all the gossip, and had instructed his people not to show him anything, he didn't want to know. You remember the housekeeper I had to fire after she let it leak about him showing up here? That was the last straw, especially after how the gossip rags were so horrible during all the scandal last year...anyway, I told him Colm was just someone who was helping you with your new book. You two were friends, that was it."

"What...what did he say?"

"He thanked me for letting him know. He said you'd already told him about Colm before, so he knew who he was. I asked him if he had any questions but he said no. And then he got off the phone. The whole thing took maybe ten minutes."

"How did he sound?" She's sitting up a bit now, leaning on her elbow. 

"Um...normal, actually. He was surprised I was calling him. At first he was concerned that something had happened to you, but...then it was very polite. He sounded...like I said, normal. Level. He wasn't upset or tense. He didn't get mad when I told him about what the rags were saying, muttered something about how nobody ever tells the truth anymore, they just want to make money. I would have asked him how he was but he said he was in a bit of a rush, had to meet someone to talk about the short film he's doing."

"Oh, good, he's working on that." She lay back down again, this time on her back, folding her hands, interlacing her fingers on her belly. "Okay. Well, at least he knows."

"You okay?" Angela asks after a pause.

Agnes lifts her head. "Yeah, fine, I mean...other than the obvious. Why?"

"You sound...disappointed."

"About what?"

"I don't know. Was there something you wanted me to ask him? I tried to ask how he was but---"

"No, Angela, you did great, I really appreciate you doing that for me." She lays her head back down, turns it to the side so she can still see Angela. "I'm glad he's okay. I'm glad he's avoiding the rags. I should tell my people the same thing."

"I almost wish you would, if I didn't know you'd go nuts from the paranoia."

Agnes chuckles. Then she falls silent, lost in thought.

"Well, if you want to talk," Angela says, shifting to get up.

"It's just that," Agnes begins, "I...I mean, we were married, for seven years. And now...now we can't even talk to each other? I mean, is this how it's going to be for the rest of our lives? Communicating through third parties? Can't we...can't we even be friends?"

Angela takes Agnes' hand and squeezes it. "In time, maybe," she assures her. "Not now, it's still raw. But soon, eventually...you'll work it out. You just have to be patient."

Patient. That's what they told her when it came to dealing with Tom's infidelity. Be patient, give yourself time. And look where they are now.

"Yeah," is all she says out loud, and then rolls over on her side, away from Angela. "I'm...pretty tired. I'm going to take a nap."

"Okay. I'll leave you a text if I go out. I'm due back on set day after tomorrow, maybe you can come visit, distract yourself."

"Yeah," Agnes says sleepily. "That sounds like fun. Like the old days."

Both women give a little chuckle. Angela leaves Agnes to take her nap.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colm drops a bomb, Angie offers wisdom, and Chris tries to come to the rescue.

27.

"I'm sorry, Agnes. I can't do this anymore."

She stands, jaw nearly dropping, by her desk. Colm has been running his hands through his hair repeatedly for the last several minutes. The poor man is a nervous wreck. She wishes she could calm him down, or at the very least, make him stop pacing.

"Colm, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry--"

"No, Agnes," he laughs, "no, this isn't on you, I'm the one who's sorry. I've been a coward, I tried to excuse it as a crush, a silly fanboy crush but the more we talked, the more time we spent together...I've let it get out of control and I have to step back."

He has feelings for her. 

She can't quite comprehend that. It's been two weeks since he came back, a month since he'd told her he had to away to Ireland for a funeral, a month since that awful photo, which had made its way into his part of the world, where he'd endured terrible teasing from his Catholic family, running around with a married woman, that he'd laughed off, they'd all laughed it off because of course Colm would never do that.

And then when he came back, he'd avoided her, unable to face her, unable to figure himself out, until now, when he just can't sit on his feelings any longer and his conscience won't let him rest until he confesses.

He has more than feelings for her. He'd said point blank he was in love with her.

"Maybe I'm just a twat," he grumbles, his hands finally dropping from his hair. "I've tried to man up, to just focus on the book, but...I know you don't feel the same way about me, I feel so selfish for just cutting you out like this...I want to help, we could still communicate, you could send me bits, messenger, texting, emails..."

"Yeah," she manages through a dry throat. "I...uh...still need your help, if it isn't too much trouble. At least until I can find someone else."

"And even if you did feel the same, it...I mean, even if you were divorced, you'd have to get an annulment and I can't...what if you can't? It's unfair any way you put it. Maybe when I get over it, I have a tendency to blow things out of proportion, you know, maybe it's my Irish blood." He chuckles at his lame joke. "I'm sorry. I'm such an arse--"

"No, please stop," Agnes says, n0t daring to step any closer to him. Has everyone lost their minds? Maybe she needs to change her perfume, get these men with their heads back on straight. "Y0u have to do what's right for you. You're right. Everything you've said is true. I'm not available, I may never be. And you've been so sweet to me these last few months, it's been nice to just...it's been peaceful. I let myself put too much into it. It's not right."

He stares at her for a long moment. "Agnes," he says, very gently, slowly, "I've gotten to know you a bit, just a bit in this time. What I've seen...I can't imagine what Tom is going through, being separated from you like this..."

Her grimace stalls his next words, but he seems to push through.

"I'm not telling you what to do. It's not my business, I know, we've never discussed it. I don't know anything. I can only imagine the kind of pain of knowing someone you were supposed to be able to trust so absolutely...betraying you. Tom deserves to suffer. But...you don't. Although I know suffering is for all of us. I'm not...I don't know what I'm saying..."

Agnes opens her mouth, the beginning of something that might almost be rude forming on her tongue, along the lines of telling him to mind his business, but she knows that Colm has something to say, and her voice doesn't want to stop him.

"It's totally your choice," he sighs. "But...even when things are hard, that doesn't mean they're impossible. And I was always taught that the harder a thing was, the more grace we get from it." He draws another breath, fixes her with those dark, round eyes, his hands in his pocket, his composure almost returned. "It's hard to trust someone who doesn't deserve it. But if God only gave things to people who deserved them, who would get anything?"

He gives a tiny, awkward little chuckle. 

"Once again, I'm sorry. I'll...I'll text you in a week or so if you still want my help."

Agnes only nods. He lets himself out, and she manages to make it back to her desk chair before collapsing.

\-----------------------

"I really hate to say this..."

"Please, then don't."

"Seriously, how many opportunities does one get like this?"

"Angela, please...."

They walk across the wide lot toward Angela's trailer. It's the next morning after Colm's confession and Agnes is still in a state of shock. Worse, she feels the loss acutely, as if someone died, or she was just dumped -- which in a sense she was -- and questions her feelings for Colm.

Did she like him that much? Knowing they won't have any more of their impromptu lunches after Mass, or phone calls, or meet-ups during the week for a cheap dinner, or Saturday morning breakfasts -- it just breaks her heart a little bit more.

"Well, it's not 'I told you so,'" Angela admits when they reach the trailer. She has a half hour before she has to report to make-up. Both women clutch their tall, hot, morning coffees, and the weather is just cool enough for Agnes to enjoy hers.

"Perfect timing for it," Agnes grumbles. "Can't image what else you'd say."

They reach Angela's trailer; she lets them in. Inside, it's nicely furnished, how Angela always requests her trailers to be. Nothing too fancy, just a comfortable couch and chair, a television with a blue-ray, something to keep her busy if she needs to kill a few hours. The sad truth of acting is that it's moments of intense, exhausting work interspersed with multiple-hour-long delays while sets are redressed, changes made, wardrobe fixed, make-up touched, and extras reset. Sometimes the actors on a set will bond and joke and have a blast together during these periods, but at others, some are reclusive, and even though Chris is on this set with her, Angela likes to be prepared. There have been days when she's sat, staring at her phone, texting with Agnes because there was nothing else to do, and Agnes was gracious enough to occupy her. 

Usually, Agnes indulges Angela on one set visit per film, if they're both in L.A. Rarely two, if it's particularly slow. She lost most of her taste for movie-making during her first run through, on the set where she and Angela had become the friends they were now. That had been eye-opening. Nobody had been unkind to her, but the whole fakery of it -- it was one of the things she had had to compromise with Tom about when they married. Following him around half the year and having to partially live on a movie set if she wanted to even see her husband during the day had been one of the things stretching them thin.

She winces at the memories, settles herself into the corner of Angela's couch.

"No, nevermind," Angela mutters as she situates her stuff for the day. 

"What? You brought it up. Go ahead--"

"No, you'll get mad at me."

This is a familiar trap. Once Angie says something along those lines, Agnes usually sighs and demands to know whatever it was, promising not to get angry. Angie knows that Agnes will do this. They've done this dance a half a million times in the years they've known each other. But usually, Angie reserves it for things that are truly painful but need to be said.

The actress plops herself down on the other end of the couch and faces Agnes squarely.

"You liked Colm."

"As a friend," Agnes amends.

Angela just gives her a look. Agnes sighs. "Okay, so I liked him. A bit. But I'm in no condition to have or even begin to have a romantic relationship with ANYONE. My feelings are more confused than...than..."

Angie brushes off Agnes' flustering. "Yes, we get it. But..." She really hesitates. Agnes grows more alarmed as the moments pass. Whatever this is, it's hard. "I mean, let's just compare, for a hot second, your actions to Tom's."

"Tom's?" Agnes voice is sharp, surprised. 

Angela nods. "Tom and Diana. When he met her, he was confused, he was hurt. When you met Colm, you were confused and hurt."

The scowl is so heavy on Agnes' face it's beginning to hurt. "They are not the same thing!"

"No, not precisely, but...well, Colm had feelings for you. Diana had feelings for Tom."

"I didn't act on my feelings!"

"Technically, neither did Tom. He had emotions. You are having emotions, now."

"It's not the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

"No! Tom and I weren't... I mean, we were having problems but we were married."

"You're still married."

"Technically. We are currently not together."

"But you're still married," Angie drives the index finger of one hand into her upright palm. "And maybe what Tom felt for Diana was stronger than what you were feeling for Colm, but...it's the same thing. And in both cases it was the other person who put a stop to it."

Agnes stares at her best friend. "So you're trying to tell me that I should feel sorry for Tom because what just happened to me was basically the same thing that happened to Tom."

"Not on the same level, no, but the basics fit."

"Sure, if you squint and tilt your head to the side," Agnes bites bitterly. "Besides, I thought you were on my side!"

Angela shakes her head. "Of course, I'm always on your side, but...but you were going to forgive Tom and move on until you found out about Diana. And maybe...maybe you need to..."

"To what?" Agnes snaps. "Reconsider?"

Angela shrugs. "I'm just saying...you're usually a high empathetic person, Agnes. I've never not known you to be willing to consider the other person's feelings. I just want you to think about it. I know it's not perfect, and I know that your feelings for Colm aren't really a betrayal of Tom, I mean, he has no right to expect anything from you in your current state. I know it isn't precisely the same thing, but...but isn't it, somewhat? Are you so hard hearted right now that you can't even consider it?"

Agnes huffs out a breath. "You'd better hurry, you'll be late for make-up," she grumbles, leaning back into the couch.

\--------------------------

A short while after Angela leaves the trailer, Agnes' stomach begins to growl.

She knows there's a catering truck around here somewhere, and she'd rather eat and be distracted than think about what Angela said.

They aren't the same thing.

Even though there are distinct parallels. 

But they aren't.

Not really.

Are they?

She makes it down the gravel path toward the smell of baking bread when a familiar figure suddenly stumbles into her path. 

"Oh!" the man says, wide blue eyes startled. "Agnes!"

"Chris!" Agnes stares up at him, suddenly very awkward and uncomfortable. She hasn't spoken to him in over two months. Two months since that awful night when Tom had screamed at him, accusing him of all kinds of things, none of which Chris denied.

He looks good. Agnes is immediately irritated with herself for noticing that, but he does. For the film he's got his sandy blond hair nicely trimmed, no beard -- she was never fond of him with a beard, although others differed in opinion -- and of course the muscles. Even though the Captain America days are long behind him, he still keeps in shape, that perfect shoulder-to-waist-ratio. Chris seems to just keep getting better with age.

"Hi," he says, giving her a shy, self-conscious smile, but his eyes light up and dart nervously around, looking her up and down.

"Hi." She suddenly feels bad. She feels bad that she hasn't called him, hasn't talked to him. Hasn't apologized for Tom's behavior...or maybe Tom has done that himself. "How...how are you?"

"Good," he says with a nod, his hand fidgeting behind his back. He's in a white T-shirt with a thin gray hoodie against the morning chill, and jeans. "You?"

She shrugs. "Okay, I guess."

"No, seriously, Agnes," he said, his shoulders straightening a bit. "How are you?"

"Adjusting," she says wistfully. "I want to apologize to you, actually."

"To me?"

"For not calling you sooner, and apologizing."

He gives a little giggle. "You're apologizing for not apologizing sooner?" He shakes his head, then adds, "You don't even have anything to apologize for." They've started walking toward the catering truck. Agnes spots the pastries out of the corner of her eye. She wants, very much, to start pity-eating. Filling herself with food, eating her emotions. It's been a struggle for her entire life and she knows she's gained weight since this whole thing with Tom, even though she struggles to keep exercising, to stay in reasonable shape. 

"I do. I should have made sure you were okay, at least, after everything..."

"You had other things to worry about. Besides, Tom already..." Then he trails off, doesn't continue.

"Go on," she urges. "What did Tom do?"

"About a week or so after he went back to London, he called me," Chris says, back to fidgeting again. He squints, looks off into the distance. "He felt awful. I told him to forget it."

Agnes waits. Apparently that's all there is to it. Men.

"Besides," Chris finally adds after a full minute, "I think the poor bastard is suffering enough." And then he finally looks at her. 

"Have you talked to him recently?" Agnes asks, and doesn't know if she's trying to avoid the subject of exploring Chris' exploited feelings for her, or actually trying to get information on Tom.

"Not much, maybe a few weeks back, I called to check up on him."

"How is he?"

"You haven't talked to him?"

She shakes her head. Two months. Two. And she still can't bring herself to talk to him. She's too afraid of what will happen.

Chris grunts. "So how long are you going to hang around today?"

Subject change. "Tom's that bad, you don't want to tell me?"

With a shrug, Chris' face crumples into a wince of confusion. "He's...adjusting." Choosing her earlier word.

"Nice." Agnes reaches for a pastry and shoves half of it in her mouth. Maybe if she stress eats enough she can go back to being 300 pounds and all these problems will become obsolete because who wants to date a girl who weighs three hundred pounds, let alone be married to her?

"Look, I feel I owe you an explanation about what Tom said," Chris says with a sigh.

"No, you don't," Agnes insists. "Wouldn't matter anyway. And I don't think I could handle another guy telling me he has feelings for me and why he can't be around me anymore because he can't seem to control them. Honest to God, I don't know what's in the water lately..."

"Another guy?" Chris voice turns sharp. Agnes finishes the first pastry and goes for a second. But at Chris' insistent look, she tells him, in short sentences, about Colm.

"Poor guy," Chris breathes.

"Yeah, thanks, that makes me feel better," she barks, gathering up a few more pastries in a napkin and stepping away from the truck to head back to Angela's trailer. She doesn't get more than five steps when Chris catches up to her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean...geeze, Agnes, slow down!"

"Why? I should obviously get as far away from the male population as I can. Apparently I have some voodoo cloud hovering around me that makes men lose their senses -- taste and sight being the first two!"

"Oh, ha ha, there's that acrid wit we're all besotted with," Chris says, jogging out in front of her and turning so that he's matching her steps with backwards ones before her. 

//Besotted.// Such a Tom word. Agnes' already dim mood darkens further. 

"If anyone's lost their sense of sight it's you," Chris says, his humor starting to tip toward irritation. "I've never known a single human being as completely blind to their attractiveness as you."

"Which should be a sign that I don't have it."

"Do I have to make you a list? I know you have this circle of flares thrown down around you that scream, 'I'm fat and ugly and nobody should like me,' but the only one who thinks that is you. You think I believe anyone who tries to tell me how handsome I am? I joke about it nine out of ten times just to cover up how much I don't agree with them!"

Tom gave her a lecture like this, a very long time ago. She can't quite remember if it was before or after they were married. 

"And you don't get to judge what people find attractive in you," Chris goes on. "You don't get to decide how something you say or do hits someone just the right way, makes them see how smart, or dry, or witty, or brilliant, or creative, or insightful, or sarcastic, or sweet, caring, compassionate or quirky you are. But you also don't get to tell them that you don't have it."

She stops. Chris stops with her. "Is this a pep talk?" she remarks.

"See? Proved my point."

She draws a heavy, long, deep breath, trying to calm herself. When she opens her eyes again, Chris is still waiting, but he isn't staring at her, respecting her moment to compose herself. 

"Doesn't matter," she says. "I'm permanently off the market anyway. Unless you're of the opinion like most of the people in my life seem to be at the moment that I should reconsider my decision."

"Reconsider?" Chris barks. "No. No way."

Her eyebrows rise, surprised.

"Look, I forgave Tom for me, but not for you. He cheated on you, Agnes. I'm surprised you tried as hard as you did to stay with him. And when I found out about Diana..." Chris looks away, struggling for a moment. "I just...I think I broke up with her because I was mad at him."

"That's...not true."

"Maybe." He shrugs, fiddles with his hands. "Doesn't matter." His eyes dart to her.  
"He never deserved you, not even in the first place. I've known Tom longer than you, Agnes, I knew him when his star took off, I saw how he put on that Prince Charming image, but never hesitated to ask for what he wanted, and trust me, he wanted a lot. You think he didn't enjoy all the opportunities he had?"

"So what," Agnes says, feeling her throat starting to close. "You're saying it was a matter of time? That he was a player and--"

"Tigers don't change their stripes," Chris says.

"We aren't tigers, Chris, we're people, and we don't have stripes." Hadn't Tom said something like that once? She can't remember. "Tom tried to be a good man, same as anyone. Maybe he pulled the wool over my eyes the whole time, but as far as I knew, and I know a lot more than anyone gives me credit for, he waited for me the whole two years before we were married. You don't do that if you're used to getting it regular unless you're devoted. What, were you any different when your fame hit?"

"I had some of my share, fair enough," Chris says, "but after a while that gets old."

"Yes it does." She starts walking again. He doesn't follow. There are other crew members walking around, and neither one of them wants to end up in the gossip rags any more than they already are.

\----------------------

Chris' words sting. They haunt her later, when she's home, banging away on the laptop.

She's rewriting the scene where Natalie realizes that Henry has slept with one of Maddy's co-stars. She's only known him a month, hardly knows him at all except for the fact that she has a terrible crush on him and won't allow herself to admit it, won't allow herself to be around Henry much at all because she's afraid of another disappointment. Agnes has already written how a previous actor charmed her and then disappeared when filming was over, never kept in touch. And now Natalie comes down the stairs from her room to where Maddy and Henry are waiting in the kitchen, and the co-star, Irena by name, comes in, as they are all planning an outing to lunch on a rare day off.

When Irena comes into the kitchen, Natalie immediately notices, because she's hyper-tuned into everything Henry does, the look Irena and Henry exchange. The smirk that plays on his lips, the way Irena swings her hips and barely brushes against him as she passes by. 

It hits Natalie like a blow to the stomach. A stomach that is quickly filling up with acid. She is sick, blood rushes to her head, her cheeks, and she gets light-headed, faint. 

Why is it affecting her so much? She can't understand. 

She doesn't give an explanation. She just turns around and heads up to her room, worried that if she speaks she'll give everything away. She can hear her name being called behind her, but she doesn't stop.

Maddy finds her a few minutes later, and Natalie is so upset her voice gets loud, as it always does whenever she gets very, very angry.

"I'm not going," Natalie says. "I'm not going anywhere with either of them. And don't ask me again, just keep me out of your little circles."

"Nat, calm down," Maddy insists. "Tell me what--"

"He slept with her!" Natalie barks. "They had a one-nighter or they're having a fling or whatever."

"You're imagining--"

"Ask. Her." Natalie goes into her bedroom and shuts the door.

Downstairs, Henry and Irena look at each other in confusion, and then finally, a hint of shame. Irena knows better -- it's not the first time Natalie has had a fit like this, but usually she just walks away, she doesn't scream or yell. They can hear most everything because Natalie is so loud -- she's naturally loud anyway. 

When Maddy reappears, Henry is very concerned. He had no idea his actions would affect anybody like this, come between a friendship, whatever. And at the same time, he's indignant, because what the hell difference does it make to Natalie who he sleeps with, what business is it of hers? Maddy, ever the diplomat, tells them that either the three of them should go to lunch and forget it, or just forget everything and both of them can leave. She won't let either one up to Natalie's room to talk to her. Irena gets pissed and leaves. Henry sticks around, a bit more insistent.

"Can't I try?" Henry asks. "Maybe she'll talk to me."

"She won't talk to you again," Maddy says, defeated. "Like, ever. She'll be polite but... you know, everybody has a line. Everybody's line is different. If Natalie can't respect you, she doesn't want anything to do with you. Before she could hold out some hope, but now--"

"Your friend is rather judgmental," Henry snaps back. "What I do in my bed is not her business."

"You're right, it isn't," Maddy replies. "And her response is, nothing about your life is any of her business, and vice versa. So live and let live, and please go away. She's not making any demands of anyone, Henry. She's simply choosing to disassociate herself from anyone and anything that she finds offensive. She has the same right as you do."

But Henry is still torn. He doesn't like the thought of Natalie hating him and it wars with his equal repulsion of the grounds of her objection to his behavior. But in the end, he leaves, and Natalie asks Maddy, as her best friend, to please never make her be around that man ever again. Maddy complies. The filming project ends and Maddy and Henry go their separate ways, as it always happens in Hollywood, with promises to work again. Natalie never comes up in conversation. 

Agnes runs her hands through her hair, staring at her words. Tom never did that. Tom never slept with any0ne right under her nose during that time, or at least if he did, he was incredibly discreet. But right now, with her trust levels at their lowest, and with Chris' words ringing in her ears, she just doesn't know anything anymore.

In the book, five years into the future, Natalie and Henry are going to meet again. And so help her, Agnes doesn't want them together. She wants Natalie to realize that Henry will never be what she wants him to be, that fundamentally they are too different, just as she and Tom were too different, and that her feelings are irrational...but no, feelings can't be dismissed that easily. They can't be labeled and dissipated. 

Why can't Natalie see that? Why does the true ending, that they won't be together, feel wrong? Why can't Agnes conquer that romantic that insists that there must be a happy ending? Love must be the end.

Love is the end, she tells herself. But sometimes it's a stronger kind of love, that the world doesn't understand. Even she doesn't understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST HANG IN THERE A BIT LONGER WITH ME.....


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to GoldDust because I "borrowed" a conversation we sort of had on Tumblr.

Chris comes over to Angela's a few weeks later. They have to work over the weekend, rehearse for a very intense scene, and by around five in the afternoon they're exhausted and decide to order carryout.

Agnes wanders in as they're ordering. She was out doing various things, trying to occupy herself on a long Saturday, trying to work through the writer's block by just letting herself daydream. 

She exchanges awkward glances with Chris. But they smirk at each other. It's hard to be angry at Chris for long. And he didn't say anything that wasn't true.

They eat dinner, talk and laugh and drink a little bit. Angela gets a call from Nicholas and she scurries from the room to talk in private. 

Suddenly Chris' hand is over hers, his skin warm, his fingers strong. 

"I feel like we keep apologizing to each other," he says. "Can this be the last time?"

God she wants it to be the last time. She smiles hesitantly and nods.

"I'm sorry I was an ass," Chris says. "I just get...upset. About things. But it's none of my business and I promise never to bring it up again."

Agnes finds herself surprisingly empty. She just has nothing to say. She can't quite think past the fact that how Chris feels, gripping her hand like that. And how much it reminds her of Tom. How he used to touch her. How when things were good between them, he was always touching her. How he knew how much she adored his hands and used them fully to his advantage. And it's been months since they were last together, and while she doesn't like to think about never having sex again, it's hard to think about the fact that she will never be able to have it again...

Slowly, her hand turns over under Chris' and their palms slide together. His is dry -- she hates sweaty palms. And she sees the look in his eyes and for a moment, she could -- she absolutely COULD understand why someone would do this, would give in to their baser instincts because something in her is rebelling and...

She yanks her hand away, tries to cover it with a shaky smile and starts clearing the table.

Chris isn't having it. He follows her into the kitchen. He doesn't ride up on her but he does get close.

"You don't make any sense to me," she says, shoving the dishes into the sink, back resolutely turned to him.

"I don't?"

"No." Still not looking. "First you tell me to rebuild. You tell me to try again with Tom, not in so many words. And now...he never deserved me? He worked so hard to get me, //and// he was an asshole? I mean, which is it, Chris? Which way is it? Was I blind or was I noble? Because it can't be both."

Chris comes closer. "A lot changed that night he came here."

"You told him to forget it, when he tried to apologize. Was it because what he said was true? That you were waiting for your moment?"

"Maybe," he murmurs.

"It isn't right, Chris," she says, gripping the sink edge, trying to keep herself from turning around. 

Then his hands gently close over her upper arms, his fingers igniting goosebumps along her skin. 

"It wouldn't matter to me, you know," Chris says softly. "And it wouldn't have to mean anything to you. Whatever you want. No strings. Just let yourself go, for once in your life." She tolerates the temptation for one deliciously long moment, and then turns, shoving him away.

"No," she says, more to herself than to him. He pulls back, hands still up, palms out, to show he means no harm, but really what she needs to do is run from this room. She feels the lecture rising, but knows it makes no difference. Chris is making the same mistake that everyone else makes. He thinks one time won't matter. Just once.

But it matters. It matters more than anything. Exceptions become the norm.

"I know we were supposed to be done apologizing," he says.

She shakes her head. "I'm not going to lie. I want to. I want to very much, but...I can't. It would be wrong on so many levels..."

Chris sighs. "One of the many reasons why you're so appealing," he says.

She glares at him. "Because you can't have me? I'm a challenge?"

"No," he says, his voice so soft. "Because you know who you are. You don't waver. Even when you do. You know how rare that kind of self-possession is in today's world? Can you imagine...no, forget it."

"Imagine what?" Of course she can't let it go.

"Can you imagine someone like Tom who hardly ever said no to anyone in his life, someone like me who did it only a bit more, what we go through in moments like that? Knowing it's wrong but lacking the will to stop?"

"You don't lack the will," Agnes declares. "Neither does he. You just refuse to use it."

"Maybe we don't know how." He sighs. "And yes, it does only make you more desirable, as awful as that sounds. Men think they want easy things but they don't respect the person who gives it to them. Someone who tells them no? Who respects themselves that much and doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks? That's almost irresistible."

"Who knew integrity was so sexy?" she snipes as she finally, finally gets away from him, puts the kitchen island between them. "Chris, you need to go. I'm not mad at you, please don't call me with another apology. It's fine. It's on both of us. But I don't think we should hang out for a while. I just...need time to work on my integrity." She can't help a little smirk. She wants to show him she's really not upset, at least not more upset than she is with herself, this is on her. 

First Diana, now Clare. She's repeating Tom's mistakes.

Chris leaves, and she goes out on the patio, spreading out on one of the lounges, breathing the sweet night air, trying to get her head on straight.

She didn't sleep with Chris. She didn't attempt anything with Colm. Why does she feel guilty? 

If she'd been any less herself, she would have given in to Chris, she knows that. It would have been easy. So easy.

Tom lacked that integrity. Tom lacked the will to stay true. Tom tossed aside his vows to her for his own selfish pleasure. 

When she dozes off, she has a nightmare. She's back at their home in London, that awful afternoon when she called Tom out, and instead of his mournful, remorseful face, he's defiant.

"It's was just sex, Agnes," he tells her. "Just sex. It doesn't mean anything."

She can't answer him. In dreams, she has a hard time talking. She manages to sputter, "It always means something, Tom."

"Between you and me it does," he argues. "But not with others. It's an itch, I scratched it, that's it! You know I love you."

"How can I...when you aren't faithful?" She's crying, dry sobs with no tears. She feels like there are invisible icicles stabbing her in the chest and stomach. 

"Because I married //you//," he says, now chasing her around the house as she tries to walk away from him, her anger getting the better of her. "I come home to //you.// I am devoted to //you.// Am I ever not there for you in any way you need me? Is there anything else I haven't given you, asked for or not? Can you name one thing?"

She can't, but of course she can't. She can't think straight.

"This is one thing," Tom says. "One thing in all the many other parts of our relationship. You yourself have said that sex is only one part!"

"It's not a part I'm willing to share!" she finally manages to growl.

"Well, we all have to compromise!" he declares. She's so flabbergasted by this that she only gawps at him. "You are the only one I love, Agnes. You are my world."

"I'm leaving you," she says, and she heads to walk from the house with only the clothes on her back. Her purse, wallet, and keys are already in her hands. She doesn't think how. 

"Fine, go ahead!" And now he's angry. What fucking right does he have to be angry? "Go ahead and desert me! So much for all of your promises!"

"My promises? Of all the fucking nerve!"

"One thing, Agnes. One thing in all of our relationship. I didn't realize your love was so conditional."

Flabbergasted again. She can hardly breathe with the shock of his words.

"If you truly loved me, truly accepted me for who and what I am," he growls, stalking toward her, "you would stay. You would realize that I can't be confined, I can't have my freedom taken away, I can't be your prisoner."

"Go to fucking hell!" she shrieks.

He's so close to her, but she can't tell if he's grabbing her or not. She feels pinned, restrained. 

"You never loved me, did you?" he taunts. "I can't believe you'd betray me like this--" And suddenly he's shaking her shoulder--

And Angela is standing over her.

"You were shouting in your sleep," Angela says, concerned. 

Agnes draws several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. "Dammit," she mutters. "I was...having a nightmare."

"About Tom?" Agnes can only nod. "I heard you say his name once or twice." Angela sighs heavily. "Aggs, I think you need to call him, maybe set up an appointment with Dr. Summers. I think you still have some unresolved issues."

Agnes' only reply is a harsh, strangled laugh. Laugh or you'll cry, she thinks.

"Sorry," Angie mutters.

"No, don't. I'm so tired of people saying they're sorry." Agnes sits up, stands, shaking the rest of sleep from her head. "I'll think about it."

\---------------------------

A few days later, Agnes sits at her computer, staring at her work. Even she feels a certain kind of pride at what she sees. It's good. It's better than a lot of stuff she's been writing. Colm has been able to help her with a few things, through texts and emails, and she feels confident enough to show her agent Andrea what she's got done so far. Ready to have her start soliciting it. She hasn't had a solid contract in a few years, because she doesn't want to commit to more books than she thinks she has in her. 

Then the phone rings. And the name that comes up is "Diana."

For a long moment, Agnes can only stare at it. Then her brain kicks in. It can't be //that// Diana. Diana isn't one of her contacts, her number isn't saved. And then it clicks.

Tom's mother. Diana.

She answers with a tremulous hello. Convinced Diana is going to tell her that Tom is dead in an accident. It's the only reason she can conceive why Diana would call her.

"Agnes? Hello dear," comes that soft English voice. "It's Diana."

"Yes, I...hello, Diana."

"It's been ages since we've spoken, I know," she chuckles. "I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time."

London is eight hours ahead. It's nine in the morning, which means it has to be around 5 there. "No, it's not a bad time. I'm just...kinda thrown."

Diana heaves a sigh. "I have to confess, I've been...hesitant to contact you since this mess started. I figured you and Tom needed your space. And I couldn't be...impartial. How about your own parents? Have you spoken much to them?"

"The occasional phone call to say hello, let them know I'm alive. But no, I haven't talked to them about anything."

"Rightly so. It's none of our business. It's nobody's business, but with Tom being so much in the spotlight I know that's been incredibly difficult. But I'm afraid I just couldn't hold out any longer. Especially since Tom told me you aren't..."

"No, I'm not." She doesn't want Diana to finish the sentence. "I'm...I'm very sorry if this sounds rude, but did you call me to tell me you weren't going to ask about...or...?"

"I've been concerned about you, darling," Diana says, and her tone is very sweet, genuine and motherly. She always got along well with Diana. It was clear from minute one that Agnes was not a gold digger, she was not the kind to run around on Tom, that she was going to be a faithful, loving wife. At least that was the impression she'd made. Diana had told her point blank as much, how glad she was that Tom had chosen someone like her and not some starlet whore.

"When I say I can't be impartial, it's because I identify too much with you. You know that James and I broke up a long time ago. It was very hard on Tom," Diana continues in that same tone. "I always worried that my children would end up harmed by it down the line. It's not something you think about at the time. I thought we were doing the best thing by everyone. And Tom seemed to be the one who was...well, it altered him. He was always so cautious after that -- he had a hard time trusting people, in particular women he would develop feelings for, as he got older. But you, Agnes, you were...I can't find the right word. Monumental? I'd never seen him with anyone the way he was with you. I know love does things to us, but...I thought he would know better, see the value of what he had. I never thought he would..."

She trails off. Agnes feels she should say something. There is a reason Tom's mother has decided to call her out of the blue and spill her guts to her daughter-in-law. 

"Is Tom okay?" Agnes asks in a small voice.

"Yes, in the...general sense," Diana half-breathes. "I think he's...resigned to his fate."

It's a terrible sentence. Resigned to his fate. Agnes feels it like a chill. She forces out her next words. "Well, you know Tom. He's resilient. Eventually he'll be back to his normal self."

A heavy pause. Then, "You really think that, dear?"

Agnes flusters, silent, thankful that Diana can't see her. But she can hear the silence stretching. "I...I know Tom. And I know he always treats everything as a learning experience. And he's still young, and..."

"One doesn't //bounce back// from the loss of a marriage, Agnes," Diana says, her tone mildly chiding. "I'm not quite sure which side of the family Tom received his bravado from, maybe it was me, you've known him long enough to know that's only one side to him. And I know you've been apart for a good while, rightfully so. But he's not...he's not the same. Anyway, I actually was more concerned about--"

"Not the same?" Agnes interrupts. 

"Darling, I didn't call you to make you feel sorry for Tom," Diana says, her voice a bit stronger, but still warm. "I'm so sorry that's what it's turned into. I wanted to find out about you, but I realize that it may feel awkward, venting to the woman who gave birth to your ex-husband. But I empathize with you and I've been very cross with Tom, although admittedly he's kept his distance from it, and he's been hard enough on himself that he doesn't need it from me."

"There wasn't a right or wrong choice," Agnes says. "I was just trying to do what was best. I want him to be happy again."

"That's all he wants for you, Agnes," Diana says. "It's become his mantra since he came back from the States this last time. Maybe it's too soon to ask this, but...how are you adjusting?"

"I don't have Tom's bravado," Agnes replies, dully. "But I'm..." Miserable, she thinks. I'm miserable and I don't think I'll ever be happy again. But I know reasonably that this will pass. I know nothing stays the same forever. "Surviving," the only word she can manage.

"All right. Well. I'm so sorry, dear. I feel I...well, I was just thinking about you."

Agnes feels suddenly touched. "It's okay, Diana. I've been...wanting to talk to Tom, but I'm afraid it's too soon. I'm worried about him. I want to make sure he's okay. Do you think I could...call you and ask you? Every now and again? No, maybe that's not a good idea. I don't want to put you in the middle."

"I'm going to go balls out and say one more thing before I go," Diana says, as if she hasn't quite heard Agnes' request. "I'm seeing two people who are miserable. You sound miserable. He is miserable. Seems to me that you have a choice on whether to be miserable together or miserable apart. And I know that marriage can sometimes seem like two people being miserable together for the rest of their lives. But everything passes, and when it does, where are you going to be? You could be together, or farther apart. That's where you have to look. You have to look past the misery and see where you could be. And if you're going to be happier apart after it's over, then fine. But if not. Well. It isn't too late. Okay dear. That's all. Please keep in touch."

\--------------------------------

Wednesday evening, Agnes goes to Mass. She's missed the earlier morning one and manages to find a 5:30 p.m. The reading is from the Second book of Kings, about David and Bathsheba.

It's later, when David is desperately praying that the child he and Bathsheba conceived in adultery with live. Nathan the prophet has just called David out on what he's done, sleeping with another man's wife and then, when he couldn't cover up the pregnancy, having the man killed and hiding it in an act of war. David is now so desperately in the throes of guilt that he's lying on the ground, not eating, not sleeping, giving every ounce of his strength to prayer that the boy won't die.

But the boy does die. For whatever reasons that only God truly knows or understands, he dies.

David gets up, cleans himself, and goes to eat. Everyone is confused because he was such a mess, but now that the child has died, he's pulled himself together. His answer? There was hope that things would change before, but not now. Now, we have to move on. And not only does David move on, but legitimately married to Bathsheba, he gives her a child, Solomon, who becomes his heir, who God blesses and even gives Wisdom.

That night, Agnes cannot sleep.

Everything is locking into place. Everything everyone has said. It runs like a montage in her head, their words, their faces.

Tom's face, his anger, his hurt, his smile that afternoon when he'd hugged and then kissed her goodbye. 

It drills on her like she's having fever dreams. It runs relentlessly over and over again. All those faces accuse her. Malcolm's asking her if she wants to change her mind. The disappointment in Dr. Summer's tone. Charles' words, Diana's words, Chris' confession and his offer. Colm running away from her.

It snaps together like some retracting puzzle and forms a picture so clear and sure, she's paralyzed by the sight of it.

She has to go home. 

She has to go back to Tom.

The old excuses don't work. Tom isn't better off without her. Maybe he's not better off with her, but both of them made that choice a long time ago and it truly is too late to change it. She made promises, vows, and she is bound by them, regardless of anything anyone else says or does, including herself. And Tom may have wronged her, but he's trying so hard and she has to help him. 

For better or worse, she is bound to him and he is bound to her. He knows that.

She knows it too.

Circumstances are different. Foundations will be gutted and then re-laid. But whatever happens, no matter how hard this is, she knows that grace will be provided.

Whatever the original circumstances, now things are different. God takes our mistakes and uses them for better things. She's always believed this. She feels literally like a blind person just realizing that they were blind, and now they can see again. 

Regardless of how she and Tom came together, they are together. Regardless of the mistakes, she knows good can come from this. It is a feeling, yes, but something deeper than a feeling. A hope.

Finally, at about three in the morning. She opens the sonnet app on her phone and bookmarks number 102.

My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming;  
I love not less, though less the show appear:  
That love is merchandiz’d whose rich esteeming   
The owner’s tongue doth publish every where.   
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,   
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;   
As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,   
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:  
Not that the summer is less pleasant now   
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,  
But that wild music burthens every bough,   
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.   
Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,   
Because I would not dull you with my song.

That done, she rolls over and finally dozes off. 

When she wakes that morning, she impulsively opens the app again.

There is a reply. 

Number 88 is bookmarked.  
When thou shalt be dispos’d to set me light,   
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,   
Upon thy side against myself I’ll fight,   
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.  
With mine own weakness, being best acquainted,   
Upon thy part I can set down a story   
Of faults conceal’d, wherein I am attainted;  
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:  
And I by this will be a gainer too;  
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,   
The injuries that to myself I do,   
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.   
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,   
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

 

The next call she makes is to book a flight to London. One way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting harder to reply to comments because these chapters are so critical to the plot and I'm afraid anything I say with spoil things. But I appreciate ALL OF YOU! HUGS AND KISSES!


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes goes home. What will she find?

Agnes has not had the dream about the wall in some time.

This time, the bricks are high. But instead of being alone, someone is with her. Someone is holding her tightly. The wall surrounds them both. She can't quite see his face but his body feels familiar, his long arms wrap around her, and she wants to weep with the sweet relief.

The wall is around them, holding them together. She finally let him in.

When Agnes wakes, she feels someone touching her. Fingers in her hair, stroking with exquisite gentleness. The fingers slide to her cheek, pushing away strays, the pads soft against her skin, then trace up to her forehead, skimming along the lines with affection.

She opens her eyes and sees Tom. The look on his face is familiar, but she's never seen it with such clarity before. His eyes dance. They practically twinkle. The smile is soft, lips pressed together, pursed slightly. 

Joy. She isn't sure for a moment if its what she sees in his eyes or feels in her heart. It's simple, unobstructed by all the cobwebs of all their difficulties. 

She hasn't laid eyes on him in the flesh in two months. All she can think is how happy she is to see him now.

Then she realizes that she fell asleep on the couch while she was waiting for him to come home.

The memories of the agonizing morning she'd woken and packed and headed to LAX for the last seat on a flight that was leaving at noon are blurry and feel like they happened a million years ago. Fifteen hours on a plane -- too much time to think, too much time to question herself. Too much time to worry.

But surprisingly, she didn't worry. She didn't question. She didn't doubt, not for a second, that she was doing the right thing.

What did that //mean?//

The plane didn't go fast enough. She was restless, pacing, chewing her fingernails (a habit she'd never had), trying to read a stupid book she'd picked up at the airport as a distraction; trying to write, working through the scenes when the publisher, whom she'd named Helena, is confronted by the man who broke her heart over a decade ago, when he explains everything, and declares, in no uncertain terms, that he will do absolutely anything, anything, to fix their past. Helena resists, as she should, but her suitor is utterly undaunted. The vision of his calm face filled Agnes' mind. Helena will get a happy ending, but happy on whose terms? Being wronged doesn't justify the actions she took over her years, using a man who loved her and marrying him for his money, starting her own company, and then letting him walk away from her when he finally realized how hopeless it was to ever pursue her, and she doesn't even apologize. What would an apology matter? Sorries don't fix lives.

Then dragging her sorry behind from Heathrow, not telling anyone she was coming, barely telling Angela that morning, not giving explanations, not even contacting Tom. Why didn't she contact Tom? Was she afraid she would chicken out before she got there? Or maybe she was afraid he would reject her. She had dealt him a terrible blow, and he was moving on...what right did she have to barge back in a say, "Oops, sorry darling, I changed my mind."

So she ended up at the front door of her own house at about noon on what day, she wasn't sure, having spent fifteen hours on a plane, going into a time zone eight hours ahead, and utterly exhausted. She had her keys -- they had migrated to the very bottom of her purse and she'd had utterly no use for them in all the time she'd been in L.A., as they were to a home she didn't live in, to a car she didn't drive -- and wanted to let herself in, but instead she just knocked on the door.

She expected Tom to answer. But he didn't. She pounded harder, sure that he had to have heard her if he was in the house, unless he was in his study and had his earphones in.

So she finally broke and let herself in.

Only to find the house was empty.

For a brief moment, Agnes wondered if Tom was even living there. But as she set her suitcases in the foyer and headed into the living room, she saw signs of life. An empty glass on the side table, beside a plate dusted with crumbs -- a habit she always had, which Tom nagged her for. Had it been sitting there since...? No, it couldn't be. The smear of jam on the plate was fresh. The orange juice on the bottom of the glass was still wet. She took them and put them in the sink.

Their bedroom was made up perfectly. Tom was always good about keeping the bed made, and in the beginning he had turned it into a silly little activity for them to do together, to pull the sheets straight, fluff the pillows, straighten the comforter. But when Agnes smoothed her hand over the duvet her fingers came up with dust. 

Nobody had slept in this bed.

She glanced up at the little table on her side of the bed. It had her books sitting on it, but there was something missing. The little wooden box that contained her rosary. It was her rosary from her First Holy Communion. She scowled, even looked around for it on the floor. She hadn't sent for anything in her time away, but maybe Tom had packed it, in anticipation? 

Her answer came when she walked into the hallway and her eye caught the bed in the guest bedroom. The comforter had been changed. When she stepped into the room, she saw the little wooden box sitting on the nightstand. 

On a chair beside a writing desk laid Tom's clothes. His running gear, still slightly damp from when he'd been wearing it this morning. 

Tom had been sleeping in this room.

She turned and left, suddenly feeling like a spy. A spy in her own home.

It served her right, since she'd abandoned it.

She passed her study, stared at the desk. All the things were as she'd left them, untouched. She had no interest in the room -- it felt cold and unused. It felt alien. She glanced toward Tom's study, almost directly across from hers. His desk was a mess, covered with papers, covered with items she couldn't catalogue. They had to be things connected to the film he was working on. Tom always had to absorb himself in the role; being a director meant more to absorb. 

Even if she'd been chastising herself for spying before, it didn't stop her from going up to his desk. This room felt warm, inviting. Memories came back of days when she'd come in here with her laptop or a book and asked if she could sit in one of his chairs or on the floor, because she felt lonely for him. Being in the house with him wasn't enough, she wanted to be in the same room, breathing his air. And she could recount, with equal clarity, him doing the same, lounging on the couch she kept in her office, watching her work, how she had made efforts to not be self-conscious when he watched her work over the keys on her laptop like a jackhammer. Letting herself adjust to the weight of his gaze on her like a familiar caress, working with it instead of through it.

God, she'd been so crazy about him. Where had that gone? It feels fresh now, like tasting an old treat and wondering why the hell you'd ever given it up. 

She turned, and her eyes were dragged up by the portrait on the wall.

Tom had hung it in here. The offending portrait he'd wanted in the main room, the one that had trigger the fight that had led to...Clare.

It was a beautiful picture. With new eyes, Agnes saw what he had seen. They were smiling, glancing at each other. Tom's face was lit up so brightly, it was like the lights were shooting from him rather than into him. She was wearing that long, faintly pattered ivory gown with the long sleeves, showing no cleavage, but the silk clung to her and Tom had run his hands along her curves a few times that evening when nobody was looking. In the picture, his hand rested on her hip, his big hand with his long fingers engulfing her, even as wide as she was in that damn dress which she'd liked at the time but had regretted wearing when she saw the pictures later. 

It's a stunning picture, she had thought, her throat tightening at the memory of it emerging from that silly Snoopy wrapping paper that was leftover from Christmas. It was beautiful and it's so clear how much he loves her in how he's looking at her, how much she loves him in the expression on her face, how proud she is to be his wife. 

And he's got it hanged in his fucking study. 

Anger flooded her. Anger at herself. She reached up and gripped the heavy wooden frame. Gently, checking herself as she did it, she took the portrait down and carried it into the living room. She knew exactly where Tom wanted to put it. That Alphonse Mucha print he'd bought her on their first anniversary, the one called //Dusk,// hung in its place, having been there all those years, when he'd whispered to her that he liked that print best because it reminded him of her. He wanted to move the print to the bedroom. 

She gently took down the print. And the put the portrait up in its place. It hung perfectly on the first try. Then, she picked up the print and took it to the bedroom, laying it against the wall. She thought about getting some nails from the miscellaneous drawer in the kitchen, but realized she was too tired for that at the moment.

Exhausted by her outburst, she crawled back to the living room and sat down on the couch, staring at the photograph. Weary, her eyes drifted shut.

And now, Tom looks down at her as if she's the most precious thing in the world.

His hair has grown out, falling down to the nape of his neck. He's let his goatee come back, everything a few shades darker than his blond golden retriever days.

"Tom," she whispers, and goes to move her hand but realizes it has fallen asleep in its awkward position tucked up by her chin. Somehow she has ended up on her side, fetal position, head against the pillows by the armrest. She starts to flex her fingers but Tom quickly takes it between his own and starts to massage it, bringing the blood back where it belongs.

"Hello, my Aggie," he says, very tenderly. 

She blinks at him, contemplating him for a few more moments. He is kneeling on the floor in front of her, his elbows resting on the edge of the couch, his hands still working her sleeping one, less of a massage now and more of a series of caresses. Whatever reception she was expecting, this wasn't quite it.

She opens her mouth, but the only words that will come out are, "I want to come home."

The smile on his pressed lips widens. "I know," he replies. 

"How?"

He shows her the hand he's been kneading. Her left one. "This," he replies, his fingers lightly pressing up her wedding band. "You weren't wearing it when I saw you last. And that." He points over his shoulder to the portrait she hung.

The tightness in her throat is difficult to explain. She's so overcome with feeling. She can't comprehend what it is, there are too many and they all slide together. 

"And...that's still okay with you?"

"I told you, you would be here." There isn't any argument in his voice. Just simple statement of fact. 

"I'm sorry," she says, words getting harder to say. "I'm so sorry for every---"

He cuts her off with his mouth. It is the sweetest kiss they've ever exchanged. Her head starts to spin even though she's lying down and her heartbeat is in her throat -- he has to feel it. 

"The time for that is over," Tom says when he lets her breathe again. He shakes his head. "We're done apologizing. We have to start fresh, Aggie. We have to begin again."

She nods. "I promise, this time," she manages, words still catching everywhere, "I promise I won't...I love you, Tom. I trust you. I choose you. I want to be with you and I will put my faith in you and our marriage."

His eyes start to flood. His smile gets even wider, but still no teeth. "God, I've waited to hear you say that." He kisses her again, this time harder. 

"And I promise," he says, pulling away, catching his own breath, "that I won't hide. I won't avoid. I know you need me, and I know I need you. I will let myself be happy. You've always made me happy, Agnes, when I let you. And I will spend the rest of my life making sure you don't regret giving me another chance."

She grasps him by both sides of his head, fingers in his soft hair. "But I am afraid, Tom. I want this so much."

"And I will help you face your fear, Aggie," he says, his voice trembling with some indefinable emotion. "You give me all of yourself and I will give you all of me. There isn't anyone else I've ever wanted to give it to."

She wants so much to believe that, so she lets herself. To prove it, she grasps the curls at the back of his head hard and pulls him toward her and kisses him with utter abandon. He groans under the onslaught and responds with his own. Before she knows it, his weight is on top of her, between her legs and on her chest. If he crushed her to death it would be the most wonderful thing in the world at this moment. 

Her lips are throbbing when he groans in an entirely different way and gets his hands and knees under him, lifting himself from her. "No," he manages, "no, wait, Aggie. We...we can't yet."

While it was originally the last thing she would have thought to do, she lets out a little whine of protest that earns her his arched eyebrow, which just makes it worse. 

He dips his head down and rubs the tip of his nose against hers, swiping lightly back and forth. 

"Trust me, I want to," he sighs. "So much. These last months have been...frustrating, at the least." 

She nods, unable to say anything else, as her thigh still manages to feel the proof of his words. 

"But...we've been apart, all that time. And now we're going to try again. But I meant what I said, we have to start over. We have to make sure we're taking the right steps so we don't fall back into the traps." He pauses. His hands frame her face, his thumbs grazing up and down her cheekbones. "We've used sex to overcompensate for other things," he whispers. "I don't want to do that again."

"Okay," she says in a small voice.

"But that doesn't mean I don't want you," Tom says, anxiety filling his eyes. "I promise I've been completely celibate all this time. I know you think--"

"No," she says, her thumb sliding over his lips, stopping him. "I don't think that. I don't. I trust you."

"I don't deserve your trust." That familiar self loathing shadows his face.

"Nevertheless," she reminds him with a tweak of his ear. "You're getting it. Starting fresh, remember?"

The shadows start to break up. "Would you...do you think it would be a good idea...to renew our vows?"

She feels herself breaking into a smile. "I think that's lovely and perfect," she says, a lot more energy in her voice than she thought would be there. She rubs her palm against his scruff. He presses his cheek into her hand eagerly. 

"You do?" he says with a boyish smile.

She giggles like a little girl. This is too easy. It's too right. She is afraid to trust it, but pushes past that. Tom has been waiting for her. If that's not proof..."Of course I do. I've been...I know you don't want to talk about this yet but I want to say something. I've been going over and over in my head what I wanted to say and I want to say it, please let me say it."

He doesn't stop her, just looks at her expectantly. She crosses her arms across his shoulders.

"I've used my faith to build a wall. Marriage is supposed to be two people becoming one flesh, and I was afraid of that. I was afraid of being consumed by you and forgetting... forgetting God, if you can believe that. Because that's the kind of power you have over me. And if you had been like me, I would have been able to trust that you'd lead me the right way, that we were going together, but I knew you weren't, so I held back. And I built that wall, thinking I could live on it, thinking I could straddle both sides. That I could separate myself, serve two masters. But I've misjudged you. I always thought you didn't really understand me, but you do. You may not have believed as I do, but I know you've come to respect and maybe even accept some things over these years, and whatever else happened, you've always tried to help me stay on my path. You've never tried to sway me from it. You've always guided me as you know I believe, when I've let you in. I've been afraid, sometimes, to really tell you the things I think, afraid I'll make you angry and it will repulse you, but I'm going to have to take that risk. It's obviously not preventing it the other way. And if we fail this time it's not going to be because I pushed you away or held back. I'm yours, Tom, and I know you're mine, and this time you're getting all of me."

He listens to her, his eyes taking on that sparkle from before. He clears his throat when she's done. "Actually," he says, "we are going to same way, now."

She frowns. "What?"

"I'm converting," he says.

\----------------------------------------------

They lie in each other's arms, on the couch, her curled into him, one leg over his hip and thigh, his arms pulling her tight to him, his face buried in her hair, hers pressed to his chest. Agnes runs her fingers up and down his ribs through his shirt, then slips her hand under his arm to lie along his back. Tom has one hand against the back of her neck, his fingers scraping up and down along the top of her spine into the sensitive area on the back of her skull. Chills run and cause her shoulders to tremble now and again.

Neither has spoken in quite some time. Agnes has asked him how he decided to finally take the plunge, but he told her, gently, that he wasn't ready to talk about it, that he just wanted to hold her and feel that she was here.

Agnes contemplates her state. This is what she wanted - to be with him again. But it doesn't fix everything, she realizes. She's made a choice but there is still pain. There is still so much to say between them, so many amends to make. Not least of which, she knows, are those that will enable her to trust him again.

When she can't quite bear his touch any longer -- it's been too long since their last marital act, and she is human -- she squirms and smiles up at him.

"As fun as this is," she trails off.

"I know," he sighs, the air blowing gently into the loose strands of her hair. "We need to get up. Either that or my resolve is going out the window."

"Well...." she teases, and he replies by pulling them both upright. At his look, she shakes her head with a smile. "I have to tell you, it's a rare day that you ever turn be down. Like that one time when you were still filming the last Loki movie and were too exhausted to even take off your clothes."

He chuckles. "Well...physical pleasure was never our issue. But," he says as he gets up, stretching, then holding his hand out to her, "that doesn't mean we can just go back to business as usual."

When she stands, something hovers on the edge of her brain. It lands on her tongue before she can quite examine how wise it is to speak it. "When I told you to come back here without me," she says, looking down at their entwined hands, "you wanted to make love one last time."

"And you were right to tell me no," Tom says, his voice soft. She ventures a glance up into his face. "We've been doing so many things wrong, Agnes. I was trying to...I hate to say manipulate, but it's the closest I can get to what I mean. I've been trying to connect with you physically instead of intimately." He tugs her closer, wrapping his other arm around her waist. "Somewhere along the line that's how I learned how to love. I thought giving pleasure was the beginning and the end, to the point where the pleasure was all. That's why every single relationship I ever had before you failed. And that's why our marriage nearly ended. If we're going to do this right, there's things...at least I know I have to relearn. And I think you do, too."

She nods, feeling tears moisten her eyelashes. She isn't quite sure why she's crying -- she isn't sad, and it isn't quite joy, either. There's something different about him. It's only been two months and he already seems different. It's a change that moves her, even though she doesn't quite understand.

"I want to show you something," he says in a lower voice, and tugs on her hand, connected to his, toward the guest bedroom. 

Once in the room, he lets go and goes to her little wooden rosary box. He turns, offering it to her. "I hope you don't mind, I've been using it."

She doesn't think she should take it from him. Something prevents her. "Of course I don't mind, Tom. I saw that you'd moved it."

He nods. The little box seems smaller, engulfed in his huge hands. Thin hands, but still so long, and when he spreads them, wide. "When I first came home, I...I couldn't sleep in our bed. I moved in here." He looks around. "Didn't help. I couldn't sleep at all. I saw the beads and brought them in here, thinking it might help me feel a bit better. Like there was still a part of you here." His face twists with different emotions, but he maintains as he continues on. "And then I started saying the prayers. Tentatively, of course. I realized I'd been watching you with this thing for years but I didn't know the whole process. So I looked it up, figured out how..." He shakes his head, still looking down at the beads, and gives a little chuckle. "It helped me sleep."

She nods. She knows the hypnotic effect it can have sometimes. "Like counting sheep," she says.

"Yes, but," and he looks up at her, eyes so bright and sharp, "it was the mysteries. I started to get curious about them, and I know that the C of E doesn't teach a lot about Mary other than she's Jesus' mother, and while we don't do intercessory prayers, we don't exactly forbid it, so...I had to go to Catholic sources. I know you've always tried to explain to me the difference between veneration and worship, but...I didn't get it much, until a few months ago."

Agnes watches him carefully. Something shifts in his expression, and she waits for the revelation to come. 

"I found this thing called the Rosary Novena," Tom says, a bit softer, opening the box and pulling out the aquamarine beads. He gently puts the box down on the bed, and jangles the little crystals in his hands. "Fifty four days of the Rosary. I started with the Joyful Mysteries, the first set. The first twenty-seven days are for the petition. I was praying..." he flinches, gripping the beads a bit harder, "that you'd come back." His eyes can't meet hers for a moment, until she steps a bit closer and lays her hand, gently, along his wrist. 

"When you basically implied that you weren't, I flipped out and did...that stupid stunt, showing up at Angie's." He shakes his head, his eyes still riveted on the beads. "I was so angry," he murmurs. "But then I realized that I didn't have a right to be." His eyes finally meet hers. "So I started again. When we met at Charles', I was already a week into the Sorrowful Mysteries. I wasn't praying for you to come home anymore. I was praying for you to heal from the harm I'd done to you."

The tears on her eyelashes slide down as she blinks. 

"When I finished the second twenty-seven, I did a third, this time the Glorious ones. The Thanksgiving for whatever you asked for. And I swear," he almost laughs, "I swear I just finished today, before I walked in that door and saw you lying on our couch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, there you go. Don't worry I'm not done. Although I am warning you, it gets a bit...sticky-sweet for a bit. I think all the fluff that used to go into Tom and Michelle somehow diverted and ended up here. And THANK YOU SO MUCH for your comments! I was happy to see most of you were rooting for Agnes going home. Nobody seems to still be mad at Tom, except for me, and that has little to do with the events here. Just when I'm pretty sure the Tom we all knew was done putting on that adorkable show, and that he's hardened and distanced himself (of which I still suspect), he comes to Comic-Con and just...gah. We hates him precious. We totally, totally hates him.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honor of the 30th chapter, Tom gets the floor to explain his side of things since that awful day at Angela's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of this has been from Agnes' perspective, so it was time Tom got a turn. I would have him tell it in dialogue but Agnes wouldn't be able to sit still and keep from interrupting, so we're doing it this way. Hope it works!

When Tom walked away from Agnes that horrible Saturday evening, he knew he had no choice anymore. She had made it clear, and had been trying to tell him, unsuccessfully, for the last several weeks. She didn't want to be with him anymore. It was over.

Frankly, he didn't blame her.

Most of his therapy with Dr. MacGregor had been trying to deal with his own issues, just like Agnes' had been. His fear of confrontation, his fear of intimacy, his fear of losing her...

But there was one thing Dr. MacGregor had tried to make clear to him.

If Agnes decided to leave, she was within her rights.

Up until then, Tom had always considered himself an empathetic person. It was what made him such a good actor, and so well liked by his peers and directors. He understood people, what made them tick, how and why they reacted to things as they did.

Somehow, with those closest to him in his life, this gift had failed him.

It wasn't always Agnes who would push him away. He would do the same. She would try to give him space but he knew at times she was hurt, she just knew it would do no good to say anything. She would patiently wait for him to return, and eventually he would.

But Tom began to see that each time, the elasticity of their relationship had begun to stretch irreparably. A rubber band can only take so much of a pull before it doesn't snap back. It started to make him think maybe all those times he felt she was rejecting him could be reactions to his treatment of her. 

Sure, they were near-psychically connected, and at times their re-bonding would seem to fix all their troubles, their pains and hurts evaporating. But this was an illusion.

So Tom tried sex.

Using the physical to try and create the emotional was a time-honored tradition. But the problem was, with Agnes, it was always different. As if she were holding back on him somehow. As if she were right there, just at the edge of his grasp and if he could just reach a tiny bit farther, just a tiny bit...

Physical pleasure was all well and good. But when that became the object, especially with someone he desperately sought to bond with, it started to become tedious. 

All through his life, Tom had used sex as an activity. It felt good, it was something to with someone you cared about, and occasionally just for the hell of it. It wasn't until being with Agnes that he came to realize he'd been using people, and allowing himself to be used. She'd made him see that, but the problem was, he didn't know what to //do// with that knowledge. So he'd continued to stumble around in the dark, only with her instead of alone.

None of it was working. The frustration started to make him desperate.

Diana was a breath of clean air. Making him realize that things didn't have to be caught in an endless loop forever. He could start fresh.

But no, she'd made it clear she was not in the business of stealing husbands. And it wasn't like Agnes was exchangeable -- something in him could not walk away. Even if he could, it would just start the cycle over again. It wasn't Agnes who was the problem. It was BOTH of them. Which included himself.

He wasn't ready to face that. He didn't know how to face it. He couldn't make himself own up to the fact that a massive change needed to overcome him. He didn't know what kind of person he would be at the end, didn't know if he wanted to be that person, even though he suspected that it was going to happen one way or another, less painful or more painful. 

When Agnes rejected the portrait, he became so tired and weary that he threw himself into something he knew would be destructive. He knew he didn't give a single shit about Clare. She was young, pretty, and made him forget his problems. 

Until she gave him entirely new problems. But they weren't really from her -- they were of his own making.

And he knew he deserved every single bitter moment he'd experienced since Agnes found out.

Yet, they still kept sliding into the same trap. Now that they were openly confronting each other, it seemed that the pain that had been buried couldn't stop throbbing. A wound that wouldn't clot because they just kept picking at it. 

So when Agnes said she needed physical space, he knew it was for the best, no matter how much it killed him. How could he still want someone so much when all it meant was more pain? He didn't understand himself. Was it like an addiction? Human beings were addictive. Was Agnes a habit he had to kick? That day she left their hotel room to seek refuge at Angie's, he was gutted, and he turned that destructive energy into more determination to get her to come back.

Dr. MacGregor had helped him see all of this. And he also helped him see that determination to get her to return was useless unless what she returned to was worth returning to. 

He still struggled. He knew something was coming, he could feel it breathing down his neck. He had nightmares of being chased by some invisible shadow, something hulking and panting and baying for him. 

The only time he could feel any peace was when he was saying Agnes' rosary. He worried he was still giving in to his "addiction," but it didn't feel like a drug. Drugs pulled you down, buried you under their sweet weight. That rosary was more like a lifting. It made him feel lighter. 

The rosary lead to him doing research on the mysteries. Which led to him going through Agnes' books. Which led him to wanting to find new books. Which led him to talking to Charles.

It had been Dr. MacGregor's suggestion that Tom call Charles. He was Agnes' friend, that was true, and Tom always knew that he had wise words for Agnes when she asked for them. He hoped that maybe, just maybe, Charles would have some compassion for him.

That phone call had started out nerve wracking. 

"Hello?" came the voice, eight hours behind, slightly cautious.

"Hello, Charles, it's Tom."

"Tom," Charles said, a bit boisterous but not too much. Warm, welcoming. Tom felt his chest deflate a bit from the released tension. "What can I do for you?"

It had come in fits and starts. Tom wasn't sure what Charles would think of his friend's estranged husband suddenly asking for advice on what books to read about the questions he had. But if Charles was suspicious of him at all, he didn't let it show. He emailed him a reading list, which Tom started to pick through. The ones he'd liked the most had come from St. John Chrysostom. He started to find little quotes and write them down, and he wanted to send them to Agnes but he was unsure what her reaction would be, so he called Charles again.

Charles had been mildly reluctant, but when Tom made it clear his intentions, Charles had agreed.

"I don't want her to think I'm trying to manipulate her at all," Tom explained. "I mean, this whole thing, this whole...experience. I don't want it to come across as a play to get her back."

"It's not, is it?" Charles asked. It was the first doubt the man had showed.

"It isn't. That's why I don't want her to know about it. Not until later."

"Well...send me what you want and I'll see what I can do."

So Tom had started sending the quotes to Charles' email, and Charles had begun texting them to Agnes. But right before Christmas, Tom had been so miserable and confused that he wound up calling Charles just to see if the man could give him any advice.

"I know you never thought we should be together," Tom said, dejected. 

"It isn't that, Tom," Charles countered. "It's that...well, Catholics should marry Catholics. It's not that you're incompatible, it's just that, well, look at this way. You, as her husband, are the single most important person in her life. You are her other half, bound to her in a way no other human being ever was or ever will be again. Two become one flesh, and no one has more influence over her than you. And," here he gave an incredulous little chuckle, "you don't believe in the things she believes and holds most dear! Don't you see how it's a contradiction? How can a person be true to their faith and true to a person who doesn't have it? It pulls a person in two directions. The old saying goes, you can't serve two masters." He draws a deep breath. "Quite frankly, I'm impressed your marriage lasted this long. And, not to put too fine a point on it, I did not think you'd break up over infidelity."

There is a long and awkward pause. "Agnes said something once about how marriage was the closest state to the Blessed Trinity that man can get," Tom mused. "I don't get that."

"Well, what do you believe about the Trinity?" Charles asked.

"Three persons, one God, but, what does that even mean?"

Charles drew a heavy breath. "Okay, bear with me a few minutes. So imagine God, always existing. I know that's difficult for people to grasp, always having existed with no beginning. Just pondering that is enough to stall your brain. But this always-existing God speaks a single Word. That's what Christ is called in the old Testament, the Word. And it's the Word that becomes flesh and dwells among us, Gospel of John, you still with me?"

"I think so."

"So you have God, as we call Him, the Father, speaking the Eternal Word, the Son. And the love between Father and Son, as we understand their relationship, is so profound and powerful and intense that, because this is God we're talking about, that Love is a Person. The Holy Spirit."

"Ooo...kay."

"So three persons, but still God. Not aspects of the same God, but the Word is it's own person, and the Love, the Spirit, is its own person. Now, because God made us in His own image, He made us to reflect this Trinity. A man and a woman love each other so much that they are bound together in the covenant of love, which we know as marriage. And that love is so profound and great that it has creative abilities -- the making of a third person. A child. So that relationship of the Trinity is reflected in us, in this way. That's what they mean by marriage being the closest we get to the Trinity."

Tom didn't quite understand. It took days, weeks of pondering until he even got to the slightest point of understanding. He didn't think it was a question of his intelligence. He started to think it was a question of his faith.

"Tom, may I ask you something?" Charles asked, hesitation in his voice.

"Go ahead," Tom managed through his thoughts.

"Why do you want Agnes to come back to you?"

Tom was momentarily stunned by the question. But in a few seconds his brain managed to figure out that Charles was asking him this question in sincerity. And Charles had managed to refrain from saying anything more about his betrayal of Agnes, although Tom knew he was ready to pounce with the information that it was the single sin Christ made an exception for in the case of divorce. Not because Charles has implied it during their conversations, but because he'd said it to them in a rather intense conversation that they'd had before Tom and Agnes had ever become official. And it's something Tom's never forgotten.

He wanted to answer Charles' question, but telling him about how much he fell in love with Agnes the first time he met her, struck by her intelligence, charmed by her wit, awestruck by her creativity -- it felt too personal. Plus he's not entirely comfortable with how hard he was drawn in by her woundedness, her pain, her sensitivity - and yet she still held her chin high. He knew how it would sound. It would sound so typical, so generic. It would almost sound predatory. But Agnes had always been wise to him, from minute one. She wasn't going to let him take advantage of her -- and somehow that integrity had inflated her to nearly goddess status in his mind. Her knowledge of who she was, her refusal to compromise herself for cheap affection, which some people lapped up like starving dogs. Some people had such low images of themselves that they would do anything to feel approval, to feel connected. But Agnes, in spite of her self-doubt, knew the only approval she needed was God's, and saw right through him. 

He had known, from minute one, that to be loved by her was something considerable. And that he loved her was never a doubt in his mind.

His answer ended up being about the story of the Transfiguration. A story Charles knew well because he was the one who told it to Agnes.

That Christmas, Tom came to realize that he'd been treating Agnes' love as some kind of balm for his own wounds. He'd treated gaining her hand in marriage as some kind of victory, an accomplishment, like all the other steps he'd taken in his life to gain respect, value, and admiration. It wasn't that he wanted people to think him better. He wanted them to think him EQUAL. 

Was that wrong? Maybe not for others, but that wasn't how one looked at a wife. She wasn't a step on a ladder, she wasn't an honor or an accolade. She didn't exist to adorn him.

But she'd made so many sacrifices for him. Had he made ANY for her? 

He honestly couldn't name one.

So when those words came from her mouth....

//"Tell you what, that I'm afraid? That it might just be too damn hard? That I don't think I can live up to what you need, that maybe I never could? Maybe you're right, Tom. Maybe you do have some delusion about me and I' m not who you thought I was. Maybe all this time I've been trying to be something I'm not and now I'm tired and I don't want to anymore!"//

It had struck at every single fear he'd had, about himself, about them. It pounded at his guilt. 

And when he stood in that doorway and saw her happy, laughing and talking with a man who wasn't him...something in him cracked.

It was a bit of a secret, in the entertainment industry -- Tom Hiddleston had something of a temper. Sure, he was gracious and charming and acquiescing, but he had a limit, and it you were unlucky enough to reach that limit, running for cover was the only other option.

In the years they'd been married, Tom had struggled not to unleash his temper on Agnes, but she had one as well and that was a struggle they shared. It hadn't stopped them. At least every few months, maybe longer, maybe as long as four, something would happen and they would explode. Mostly it stemmed from their impatience with each other. Either he would start it with his biting comments, or she would with a voice that could crack glass. He was better, admittedly, when it was not him who started it -- he didn't tend to rise her to taunts like she did to his. She was always more emotionally charged. She always reacted with as much heat when he dealt it out. 

So of course she was going to lose her shit when he confronted her and Chris with insane accusations.

Of one thing, Tom had always been sure. Agnes would never, ever betray him by giving her body to another. And not simply because it wasn't in her -- because he knew the power he had over her, physically. In spite of the trouble, in spite of the years, the distance, the strain, he knew how she looked at him. It was almost obsessive, the level of physical attraction she felt for him. Women were generally more interested in a man's personality, and it was the man who lusted over the woman's physical attributes. But in Agnes' case, she couldn't seem to help herself. She was the one who suffered from jealousy when other women looked at him -- but her strange reaction of shutting down on him kept him from ever encouraging it. But he always had taken advantage of her attraction to him. Full advantage.

But her mind? That was another realm entirely. Her intellectual abilities, at times, staggered him. The thoughts that went through her, when he could get her to share them, sometimes made him feel shallow by comparison. He had always considered himself intelligent, thoughtful, curious, a learner by nature. But she was more than that -- she was a teacher. The problem was, her spoken words couldn't often keep up with her mind, she had to write, and she wrote fast, like a machine-gun, trying to get the English language to match what she saw and thought in her head. 

He began to think she was only with him because of his physical beauty. And it was only moments like that, when someone else intrigued her, when someone else inspired her, when someone else pushed her into new ways of thinking -- that was when he became jealous.

It was why he'd always been a bit jealous of Charles. 

But seeing her with Chris -- knowing Chris was hardly a dummy himself, knowing he was attractive, knowing that Agnes was capable of drawing other men to her, and that Chris, like him, had always had a fair amount of admirers -- it had undone him.

But no. Of course she had no interest in Chris. Not like that, not as anything more than a friend. No matter that Chris hovered around her, whatever his intentions, she would never accept them. 

It hadn't changed anything. She still said the words he feared most to hear.

Thank God Nicolas had been there to take him away. Tom had been broken when he clambered out of the house, unable to stay under the same roof with her any longer, afraid of what he might do. Visions of throwing her over his shoulder like a barbarian, carrying her off, imprisoning her so that she //couldn't// leave him, entered his brain, but were quickly dismissed as brought on by the stress of events. 

Dr. MacGregor had tried to make him see. He had to let her go. If he loved her as much as he claimed, he had to let her go. He couldn't keep up this obsessive behavior. He was going to cross a line and going back over would become impossible. He had to accept. He had to truly LOVE her, and as she'd always tried to tell him, love was sacrifice.

So he drew himself together and desperately prayed for the strength to do that.

When she came to see him, he had been mere centimeters way from throwing himself at her feet and begging her to change her mind, but the rosary he'd been carrying around, wrapped around his wrist under the sleeve of his shirt where nobody would see it, reminded him of his determination. 

When she had expressed dismay at his reaction, the first real glimmer of hope appeared. 

All he had to do was wait.

It was excruciating. He knew it was a contradiction, to be at the point of detachment he'd been struggling with, for so long, and then believe, in the bottom of his heart, that all he had to do was wait for her to come around. It occurred to him numerous times that he was crazy. That he was delusional. He couldn't trick her like that. He couldn't get her this time by playing hard to get. 

But at the end of every rosary, at the end of every novena prayer, something whispered in the back of his mind. "Wait."

The longer he waited, the easier it became. The calmer he started to feel. The more progress he made in his therapy. Dr. Summers still asked to see him a few times, worried that Agnes had made no efforts to contact her. 

Tom would only shrug, and say when she was ready, she'd call.

This attitude had partially bewildered Dr. Summers, he could tell from her expression. But he wasn't bothered. 

He didn't realize the progress he was making, not for a while, until the call had come from Angela, about some picture of Agnes with that man Colm. Tom wasn't bothered. He was surprised at how he wasn't bothered. He should have grilled Angela for information, should have pressed to talk to Agnes, or at least get her to intervene, as Agnes was obviously still worried about him. 

No, it was fine. He didn't want to dwell on it. He'd cut Angie off before they could get too in depth, knowing if he pushed, he would slip. 

His depression had altered into something else -- a kind of deep-rooted sorrow that comes from grief, but holds itself in hope. The kind of sorrow that comes with knowing you've lost something dear, but in spite of that, the world was not over. You didn't know how things were going to turn out, but you held onto that hope anyway. And while the depression had filled him with restless nights and empty days, loss of appetite, eternal exhaustion, this kind of sorrow slipped over him like a sheet and informed him, showed him where he had been going wrong. It was like someone had laser-focused his vision and now he could see things he never had before. He could see himself as he never had before.

Something inside him was dying, but something else was more alive than it had ever been.

He didn't claim to understand it. Dr. MacGregor had made him keep a journal from the beginning and he wrote about it. Maybe, when he felt ready, he would let Agnes read it.

It didn't surprise him, not entirely, when he walked into the house that early afternoon and saw her there. It was a shock, but not unexpected. Another strange contradiction. 

He had to wonder what she was doing there. Was she coming home? Was she there for other reasons? It was her house, after all. She had every right to be there. 

And then he saw the portrait, hanging in the main room, across from the couch. She must have put it there. A rush of hope filled him, so intense he worried he was being irrational. He knew, simply by years of knowing a person, that that was her way of a peace offering. But what kind of peace?

He watched her sleeping, and worried, briefly, that when she woke, all that pain and anger and resentment would flow again. The wound between them would crack open and bleed. 

He didn't want that. He wanted to show her love. So he'd knelt down as she slept, and as strange as it may have sounded, he breathed his love over her. He prayed quietly, in the back of his mind, and kissed her and caressed her as the most precious thing in the world. 

That was when Agnes opened her eyes. 

As Tom tells her this tale -- not in the same words, for she asks questions and they speak to each other in their own language, using phrases that are understood on different levels between them, as it happens in a marriage -- Agnes does her best to listen and not interrupt, unless she's unclear about something. But when he reaches the end, she cannot hold back her tears any longer.

She cries. She weeps in soft, steady sobs, and Tom holds her as she does so, pressing them close together, as if to absorb the raw emotions that assail her. 

She's missed being held by him, so much. It's true, all the things he's said. Physically, Tom has more power over her than any other human being on the planet. She's never grown tired of his beauty, never stopped appreciating his strength, his shape, his gracefulness. Having him so close to her, holding her tightly and stroking her back and arms and hair, whispering to her how much he loves her, how happy he is that she's here, it a pleasure she's been denied too long. 

Maybe that was part of the problem, she thinks. Her lust for him, and that is what it is at its worst, has been overpowering. And she has used him, as he has been used by many in the past, not knowing exactly how to love him, not being able to connect to him in her spirit as she has so longed to do.

His smell invades her and she clings tightly, unwilling to let go, unwilling to let thought and anxiety invade this space. He loves her, he wants her, she's home...

...but it won't end there. They are at the beginning of something.

Her tears are of grief. She cries for his pain, for hers. She cries for what they've lost, the time, the intimacy. But she cries in joy as well, knowing there is a future for them, if they can put the effort into having it. It's going to be hard, harder than they realize, but like Chris said, they have a new foundation. 

Tom pulls back his head and watches her. She gazes up at him, unashamed of the distortions her weeping has caused her face to make. She is more naked to him now than she's been in months, perhaps years, and she lets him see. Just as he let her see. 

She reaches up, her hand tangling in his curls on the back of his neck. 

"I love you," she says simply.

"I love you," he replies, his own tears starting to shimmer. "And I'm sorry. Will you let me say it? I'm so, so sorry."

And they continue to weep, together.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Agnes begin to resume their life together.

The more you love someone, the more power they have to hurt you.

The more she feels love for Tom, at times, the more she still feels it, that pain. 

She still gets glimpses of anger, still has to fight off the convulsions of jealousy that strike at her spirit.

At times she still wonders why. She still burns -- although she has learned how to quench those flames -- with hurt and betrayal when she thinks of Tom with another woman.

Quite frankly, Tom does as well. More than he did before, possibly. Maybe because the full impact of what he'd done didn't reach him before, the curtain of the world still drawn over his eyes.

But now, Agnes is willing to let him try again. And she is willing to help. She thinks she was before, but sometimes doubts it. This new resolve is powerful, and a bit frightening.

The first time she feels it is on the very first day. 

"Is there anything we need to send for, in L.A.?" Tom asks as he wrangles her suitcases into the bedroom.

"No, I brought everything," she says, her fingers trailing through the dust on the bedcover. She rubs her fingertips together, and then reaches for the corner and pushes it up and back to the clean sheet underneath. She lays her personal satchel on the bed then, the one holding her laptop and other personal items. She feels Tom's gaze on her and looks up.

He's smiling at her, not his full morning-glory smile but a small one, gentle and soft. "Yes, you did," he says.

She can't help it. She returns his smile. Then she pushes the comforter farther back. "This thing needs to be changed."

"It's getting hot, it's not like we're going to use it," he says, unzipping her suitcase and sliding the closet door open. She'd taken a lot of clothes with her when they'd gone to L.A. Living in a hotel for three months was not an overnight trip or even a week-long vacation. 

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Unpacking," he says as if it's obvious. 

She watches him for a few minutes. This was a thing between them -- she was always so lazy to get her backs unpacked. Sometimes she would just pick at the suitcases until everything she had immediate use for was...used. Upon first witnessing this, Tom had started to ask her about putting her stuff away, and then it had deteriorated into pleading and finally nagging. Then, once in a huff, he'd gotten pissed and done it for her. After that, she'd been a bit more conscientious about it, until she'd started to slack off again...and then one afternoon she'd come into their bedroom to find him putting her stuff away, not a word of complaint.

When she asked him, he said he didn't want to fight with her about it. So after that it had been a shared activity for them, like making the bed or doing the dishes.

But like so many other things, it had slacked off again, experiencing phases of renewal and then sliding away once more. 

Agnes rolls up the bedspread and hauls it to the laundry room, and then returns to the bedroom and pulls one of the other comforters from the linen closet. She sets it on the bed, in its zippered plastic, and finishes putting away her personal stuff, books and whatnot, and finally takes her laptop back to her study. When she returns, Tom is half-done with her clothes, sorting stuff that looks too wrinkled or dirty into a separate pile.

"I put anything dirty in a separate bag," she says.

"I noticed," Tom replies. 

She glances toward the uncovered bed. "Are you...going to sleep in here with me? Or stay in the guest room?"

At first the question causes him a little jolt of surprise, but then he quickly understands. "Do you..." He stops himself. "I think, maybe, that might be best for now." He glances down at the pair of jeans he's sliding over a hangar. "I mean, I'm not sure if it would be wise for us to share a bed." His eyes dart up to her, looking shy, for the first time in more years she can remember. "It's just...well..."

"I'm not sure if I could control myself in such proximity," she answers for him, in a voice she herself hasn't used in too long. Flirtatious. Then they both laugh. It's a refreshing feeling.

"We can't rush things," she murmurs when the moment passes.

"No," he says. "And we need to be a bit more...disciplined."

He's not just referring to sex, or refraining from it. He's talking about so many other things. 

That night, however, Agnes lays in the bed and can't sleep. She stares at Tom's empty side, realizing how she'd been running away from everything. Staying in Los Angeles and not coming back here had been her way of avoiding some stark realities. But she can feel him in the next room. 

Maybe it's because it's early. Tom has been keeping very early hours, working on his new project, and the emotional toll of the day made them both sleepy at around ten, a good hour before either of their usual bedtimes. They wanted to talk, there was so much more to say, and she wanted to tell him about what happened with Colm and Chris, worried that maybe he would be angry at her for it, wanting to get it out of the way, but after making them dinner and finishing with the laundry, he tells her it can wait.

"I called Dr. Summers. She can get us in tomorrow, she had a cancellation," he told her as they were getting ready for bed. She's seen him in his boxers and T-shirt a million times, but tonight it's more difficult. And he didn't shave. So the whole combination of longish curls, scruff, and ready-for-bed languor, makes her feel particularly vulnerable. 

Agnes does not question going immediately back to Dr. Summers. She knows they have so much more work to do. And last time, when things had started to look better between them, Tom had been wanting to back off therapy. His attitude now makes her feel better. 

So now she lies in bed, incredibly tense. When the clock ticks past midnight, she gets up and goes into the kitchen, wondering what she can do to help herself relax. 

Tom appears in the doorway as she's finishing a mug of chamomile tea that's half hot milk. "You okay?" he asks. It's obvious that he can't sleep either.

She nods, putting the empty mug in the sink. "Can't sleep," she says. "Probably jet lag." 

"Maybe," he says as he considers her. In this hot weather, Tom wouldn't be wearing much of anything to bed, she realizes. But for modesty's sake, he's clothed. It's got to be a bit grating.

"Look," she sighs, "we're both too tired to do much, I mean...maybe...I'll understand if you say no, but maybe just for tonight, we can..."

He smiles gently at her when she trails off, and reaches for her hand. He leads her back to their bedroom, and pulls back the sheet, motioning for her to get underneath. Then, he slides in after her, and wraps his arms tightly around her.

"Thank you," she whispers, lining her arms along his. 

"I'm glad you asked," he whispers against her neck. "I couldn't sleep either."

\-----------------

Morning finds her feeling refreshed, until she realizes she actually can't move. 

She's on her stomach, right arm stretched out in front of her, and Tom is practically lying on her, his cheek pressed between her shoulder blades. His arm stretches out over hers, along her back and shoulder almost like a brace. His hips are settled just below her backside and his leg lies lengthwise between hers. She can feel the scrape of his day-old-beard against her skin and her toes involuntarily curl as the shiver rockets down her spine.

The movement causes him to wake. "Aggie," he manages in a sleep-heavy tone. Dammit, morning voice. Even the little bit of drool she can feel against her skin doesn't do anything to dampen the mood. 

"Morning," she manages in a tight little voice.

Tom seems to realize he's on top of her, but then comes the final coup de grace when he shifts his hips and...

"Oh God," he groans, and reality seems to slap him across the face. "I'm...I'm sorry..."

She can't help it. She giggles into the pillow. 

He pauses. She can't see him but she can imagine the look on his face. "I'm sorry...is this funny to you?"

She shakes her head. "Laugh or you'll cry," she manages as she tries to turn around.

He grumbles as he gets off the bed. "Not the first cold shower I've taken. But I expected a bit more sympathy from you."

The words are accompanied by a wry little look tossed over his shoulder as he heads for the bathroom, but lack any venom. 

"At least a cold shower works for you," she says as she drags herself into sitting position. "Any chocolate in this house?"

"What do you think?" his voice echoes off the tile. She chuckles again and heads for the kitchen. Of course there's always chocolate. Between both her and Tom, chocolate is one of the major food groups.

As she sits at the kitchen table and munches a bar of Cadbury's, she remembers with fondness how Tom had used that shared love as a way to pester her, when he had been desperate for her attention, trying to convince her to give him a chance. Sneaking into her study at Angie's when it was clear she was working, asking if she had anything good in her stash. How many times had he lingered overlong at her cabinet, rummaging through her various kinds of chocolate, just to keep talking to her, or listen to her typing or texting, or find out what she was watching on the telly, or better yet, what was playing on her iPod?

Later times had found him getting her to dance with him. Her collection of golden oldies had eventually made its way onto the wedding playlist. She still had hers on her iPod. 

Tom enters the kitchen, and for a moment they exchange something of a half glare.

"Feel better?" she asks.

"No," he admits, but it isn't harsh. He comes closer and she raises a hand with four little squares of chocolate. He takes it in his mouth, biting it down the center before pulling the whole mass from her fingertips. His tongue slithers out and just grazes one pad, and her half-glare becomes full.

"You're vengeful when you're frustrated," she comments, shoving another four-square into her mouth. 

He leans forward and kisses her full mouth, chocolate on chocolate. She giggles under his lips and he giggles when he pulls away, both mouths still full. Then he turns to the fridge and pours her a glass of milk before he starts to make coffee.

A comfortable silence fills the early-morning kitchen, and Agnes starts to feel tired again. Many times, she's gotten up to say goodbye to Tom before he leaves for a set, or a flight, or a meeting, or rehearsals for a stage production, and then crawled back into bed for another three hours. He's probably going to drink some coffee and then go for his run, come back and take a shower, and then get started with whatever business he has that day.

"I'm using some offices with Richard," Tom says without being asked. "We've got storyboards set up, we're getting ready to start filming since we were just able to get financing."

"What's your story?" she asks.

"Well, you know how you hate it when someone asks you what your new novel is about," Tom says, returning to the kitchen table and sitting down just around the curve of the table, naked knees spread wide, after snatching a bit of her milk. "Maybe you should just come down and see the storyboards. I'd like to get some feedback from you, if you don't mind."

"I'd like that. When, today, or...?"

Tom shakes his head. "Dr. Summers can see us at three, so...actually we're meeting some casting choices, so today probably isn't the best. Don't worry, I'll be back in time to see Natalie, but...tomorrow would probably be the earliest."

She nods, finishes what's left of the milk. Then she draws a breath. "Tom," she says.

He instantly knows from the tone that she's going to say something serious. He frowns. "Yes?"

"I wanted to tell you. Before we go any father." He leans towards her, elbows on his knees, watching her closely. "Chris. What you said about him."

"Was true," he supplies.

She nods. "But...we...we didn't, uh...do anything. But he...um..."

"Propositioned you?"

Now it's her turn to frown. "Did he tell you?"

Tom shrugs one shoulder. "He suffers from a guilty conscience. He felt since I had owned up to what I did, he should too. He also said you drop-kicked him off the stoop, to use one of his less colorful Bostonian expressions."

Agnes flinches, looks away. Gently, Tom reaches out and slides his fingers under her chin, more of a caress than a hold. "What is it?"

"I just...for a moment, I was tempted."

"I'm sure it was more than a moment. Chris is very attractive."

"But there was a reason. I was pretty depressed. Colm had...well...he had sort of dropped me. Told me we basically couldn't be friends anymore. Because he said he had feelings for me." Then she realizes what he said. Why isn't he reacting more vehemently? But just as she thinks it, that is when the shadow darkens his face.

"Colm had feelings for you?"

"That bothers you, but Chris trying to get me into bed doesn't?" She accompanies her frustration with a slap on her thighs. 

Tom shakes his head. "Agnes, you wouldn't even sleep with me before we were married," he says. "I have very strong doubts that you'd jump into bed with someone for just sex. And I know you don't have a thing for Chris, but...Colm. Well." His lips press into a flat line. "I could read between the lines on that one."

She watches him as his chin ducks down, his fingertips tapping against each other between his knees. 

"You liked him," Tom says, not looking at her.

She nods, knowing he won't see it but he'll know her answer anyway.

"I was lonely. And he was helpful. With...writing and stuff."

Tom looks up sharply, but keeps his expression neutral. "You let him..."

She sighs. "I'm sorry."

"No, please," Tom says, reaching out and enveloping her knee with his warm hand. The other takes hers, palm to palm, fingers looping through each other, suspending it in the space between them. "You don't have anything to apologize for."

"He dumped me because he knew it couldn't go anywhere," she says quickly. "I mean, not dumped, but...he didn't feel being around each other was good for us. Because of...feelings. And he's like me, he's...well, we're married, and he knew I wasn't free, not really. Even if we got divorced."

If anything, this seems to distress Tom a bit more. She can tell in how his eyes change, the wrinkles around them becoming more prominent, and not with a smile. 

"But it made me see," she goes on, "how it was for you...with Diana. I mean, I know the two situations aren't the same--"

Forcefully, with a hint of indignation, "No, they aren't--"

"Tom, please. It just...with Colm and then with Chris, it just made me empathize a bit more with...with you."

A pregnant pause, before Tom asks, tentatively, "Is...is that why you decided to come back?"

Agnes thinks. She isn't sure when the precise moment came. She knows hearing that reading at Mass was just the push she needed, she had already started to consider it when---

"Your mother called me," she says.

Tom gives a little surprised jerk, but keeps hold of her hand. "My mother?"

Agnes nods. "She was worried about me. We hadn't talked in ages. And with circumstances being what they were...I think she originally intended to empathize with me, being a divorced woman herself, but it turned into talking more about you, and...she said something. About how marriage is two people being miserable together for the rest of their lives."

"What?" Tom asks with a breathless smile. 

Agnes is smiling too. "But that misery passes, and when it does something better is left, and we could either find that together or apart. I don't know. Somehow in my head it translated into get your ass back home and try harder, idiot."

"Hey, don't talk about my wife like that," Tom says with a mock scowl and a tug on her arm, pulling her in for a kiss.

"You're not angry at me?" she asks when they part. 

The coffee is done. Tom glances at it and then back to her. "No, what right would I have to be? It led you back here. I'll send both your friends a thank you note."

Agnes gives a little laugh and tries to pull back her hand but Tom won't have it. "Your coffee is going to get cold," she says. 

"I love you," he says. He tugs her closer. "Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you for coming back home to me."

This time she kisses him.

\----------------------  
Agnes comes into the spare room. Tom is back from his run, and in the process of trying to do laundry yesterday she realized he'd let his own clothes build up a bit. It doesn't surprise her. Tom has always been very good about keeping the house tidy, but he'd usually gotten his mother to do his laundry before she came along, and it was just something she accepted. At least she didn't have to vacuum. At least, not all of the time. 

His clothes sit in the blue basket she holds in her hands, his boxers folded how he likes them, his socks rolled up and stuffed together, his T-shirts stacked neatly. She isn't sure where to put his clothes, so she is just going to ask.

Tom comes out from the shower, dry and in clean clothes. He doesn't seem startled by her presence in his room. His hair is still wet and unruly, and the towel is slung around his shoulders to keep it from getting his dry shirt wet. He pats it dry and eyes the folded laundry appreciatively.

"Thanks," he says. "I meant to get to that--"

"Yeah, I know," she teases mildly. "Where do you, um...want it?"

Tom looks around. "Well," he says with a sigh, "I...I've kept some stuff in here, for convenience. Over time I think most of it migrated in here, so--" He points to the maple wood chest of drawers. "In there?"

She slides open the top drawer, finds his socks and pants (underwear to the Americans) and puts the fresh stuff underneath the older stuff so that it all rotates out. 

"Thank you for taking care of that," Tom says as he comes up on her left side, where the mirror is. "The t-shirts are in the third drawer."

She watches out of the corner of her eye as he finishes drying his hair, and leaves it un-gelled for the day -- she likes it that way when it gets this long, because if he puts any product in it, it starts to appear slicked back, and it gives him a mildly sinister appearance.

Sometimes she doesn't mind. But today she just wants her familiar Tom.

The movement of his hands in the towel cause the air currents to stir loose objects in the room, like a piece of paper that she just now notices, taped to his mirror. It's not a post-it reminder like they've each done a hundred times -- it's a wide, white piece of paper, trimmed in half. It's been typed, and some of the lines are highlighted in bright yellow. As she slides the third drawer shut and straightens, her hand goes to the paper and smoothes it down. And then she realizes what is on it.

//Proverbs, Ch. 31, V. 10-31  
Who shall find a valiant woman? far, and from the uttermost coasts is the price of her.  
The heart of her husband trusteth in her, and he shall have no need of spoils.  
She will render him good, and not evil all the days of her life.  
She hath sought wool and flax, and hath wrought by the counsel of her hands.  
She is like the merchant's ship, she bringeth her bread from afar.  
And she hath risen in the night, and given a prey to her household, and victuals to her maidens.  
She hath considered a field, and bought it; with the fruit of her hands she hath planted a vineyard.  
She hath girded her loins with strength, and hath strengthened her arm.  
She hath tasted, and seen that her traffic is good; her lamp shall not be put out in the night.   
She hath put out her hand to strong things, and her fingers have taken hold of the spindle.  
She hath opened her hand to the needy, and stretched out her hands to the poor.  
She shall not fear for her house in the cold of snow: for all her domestics are clothed with double garments.  
She hath made for herself clothing of tapestry: fine linen, and purple, is her covering.  
Her husband is honorable in the gates, when he sitteth among the senators of the land.  
She made fine linen, and sold it, and delivered a girdle to the Chanaanite.  
Strength and beauty are her clothing, and she shall laugh in the latter day.  
She hath opened her mouth to wisdom, and the law of clemency is on her tongue.  
She hath looked well on the paths of her house, and hath not eaten her bread idle.  
Her children rose up, and called her blessed: her husband, and he praised her.  
Many daughters have gathered together riches, thou hast surpassed them all.  
Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: the woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.   
Give her the fruit of her hands: and let her works praise her in the gates.//

She reads the whole thing, although she knows most of the words. In her missal, its the usual reading whenever the feast of a female saint comes along. 

Suddenly she feels like she's just violated Tom's privacy. She looks at him, realizing that he's been standing there, watching her reading it.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs lamely as she pulls her hand back.

He gives a very light, brief chuckle. 

"It...was a reminder to pray for you," he says softly. "Not that really I needed one. But it made me think of you. I put it there not long after I came back from L.A. When I thought it was over, I was tempted to take it down, but...I just didn't have the heart."

Tears fill her eyes. She wants to tell him that he's wrong -- she's not any of the things on that list. She's not virtuous, she's not wise, she has no strength, her inner beauty feels marred by her bitterness and self-pity, and she feels as far as a person can feel from even trying to be saintly--

But she doesn't.

Because she knows. This is how Tom sees her. He's always seen her from the inside out. And before this mess, she was a better person. She can be that again. She can heal and move on and work on her soul, like she's always tried to do, with all the triumphs and failures that entails. 

She steps closer to Tom and wraps her arms around his chest and pulls him tight. He returns the hug, his hair still damp, but the fresh smell of his shampoo fills her nostrils. One arm slings around her shoulders, pulling her farther into him, and the other caresses her lower back, without dipping too low, his hand spreading as wide as it can. 

It's a long time before either one can let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be posting on WEDNESDAY for the next two weeks. And as you see the end is finally in sight!


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back on the marriage therapy horse -- but Tom has a bit of a breakdown and Agnes has to get him through it.

When they enter her office, Natalie Summers hugs Agnes. It's a bit of a surprise, but Agnes responds graciously, although more embarrassed by the fact that she's been avoiding the woman like the plague until that moment.

"I'm so glad to see you," Dr. Summers says with a brilliant smile. She motions for the two of them to sit down. 

The session is filled mostly with the two of them telling the therapist about the events of the last few months. Tom keeps reaching for Agnes' hand, and she lets him have it, even though each one lets go periodically to talk with their hands. 

"So," Dr. Summers says when they finish. "What's different this time?"

The two glance at each other. "Honestly," Agnes says, "I'm not sure."

"Tom, you said you were converting? I had an inkling you were inching that way, but have you two discussed that yet?"

"Not yet," Tom says, his fingers idly running over Agnes' knuckles. "It's still...a bit raw, and I'm not quite sure how...or what to say about it."

Dr. Summers puts the end of her pen to her lips. It presses between them, against her teeth, as she studies them. "There is something different about you both," she observes. Her eyes drift to Agnes. "Have you talked to Malcolm about this?"

"I was going to call him, but it's too late today, it'll have to wait until tomorrow."

"Did you share your thought process with him at all?"

"It was between sessions. I hadn't...no, not really."

"Why not?"

Agnes shrugs. "I wasn't even sure of it. Maybe I was...repressing it? Thinking that I had made a choice and that I had to live with it..."

"That is a bit of a pattern with you, you know," Dr. Summers says gently.

Agnes nods. "And when it hit, it hit kind of fast. I think I was worried if I thought about it too long I'd talk myself out of it." Her eyes drift, staring into space with her thoughts. She feels Tom's fingers moving along the back of her hand. "I think maybe I thought of it as...admitting I was wrong. That I shouldn't have left."

"Like a defeat?" Dr. Summers prompts.

She can only shrug. "I know it isn't. Not after the welcoming I got." She shoots Tom a little half-smile.

"It isn't," Dr. Summers assures her. "It wasn't and it's not. Sometimes we have to go down one path before we can find the right one. You know that from personal experience. And it isn't backtracking. Deciding to go back to your marriage is incredibly brave. And right now, the two of you seem to be experiencing a bit of bliss -- it's kind of like when the body is wounded, and it produces its own painkiller, endorphins. But you have to still be on guard. There are still going to be plenty of tests. And it's been a bit less than a year since you started on this path, and infidelity takes a minimum of two years to recover from, if not longer. But if this has shown you how bad it can be, it should be motivation to push yourselves in a more positive direction."

Tom gazes at Agnes. He's had a hazy sort of glow about him since they'd arrived. 

"I don't want to get overconfident," he says softly. "But I've always thought being positive was a choice. A harder choice than being negative, anyway."

"That's a good attitude."

"I'm trying to share it. It's not easy," Agnes sighs. "I always worry that being too positive is contrary to being realistic."

"Being positive is also being realistic," Dr. Summers says. "Think of it like this. If you're realistic, you know that it's entirely possible that an event you've been looking forward to could very well be cancelled for whatever reason. Being positive says that you hope it isn't, and you're looking forward to going. Being negative, or even cynical, says that why bother looking forward to anything, you're just likely to be disappointed anyway."

"I'm not //that// negative," Agnes objects with a little laugh.

"She isn't that bad, really," Tom says with a shake of his head. 

"But reality is harsh," Agnes says. "I just like to be prepared."

"Mmm," Tom says, getting her attention, "but prepared for what? Prepared for when the honeymoon is over, so why bother enjoying it while it lasts, or prepared for putting more effort into it when you feel it start to wane, or adjusting to find new ways to keep things fresh?"

"Is that what I do?"

"I'm guilty of it too, sometimes," he admits. "But when I said we needed to be more disciplined, we need to stop taking things, and most especially each other, for granted." He looks away. "And quite frankly, I think I'm more guilty of that than you, but I think you let me get away with it too much because you're afraid to pull me back because you're terrified of rejection."

"I've pushed you away plenty of times," Agnes admits.

He nods. "Like I said, we have to take care of each other. Better than what we've been doing. And this...reunion, for lack of a better word, I think, is the perfect place for us to start from. Sure, we can coast for a bit on some good feelings, but that doesn't mean we can get lazy."

Agnes wrinkles her nose. "I am very good at being lazy," she mutters.

Tom has his elbow on the back of the couch, and he rests his head on that hand, leaning toward her. "And I don't like nagging you," he says. "It makes me feel more like your mother than your husband."

Agnes gives a shudder. "God no. And that's sexist, by the way," she adds with a poke at his ribs. "Dads can nag, too."

"Yes, but once you made me swore to never compare myself to your father," Tom says, swatting away her finger.

Neither notice that Natalie has gotten up and is pulling a few books off her desk.

"I'd forgotten that," Agnes says with a light laugh.

"I didn't. One of the reasons you swore you'd never get married was because women notoriously marry their fathers, and you said you'd rather die." He shakes his head dramatically with the last part of that sentence, a sweet mocking of her dramatic statement.

The thought enters Agnes' head that her father, with all his flaws, would never have ever cheated on her mother. But she lets that thought go without guilt for thinking it. 

"Tom," she says softly, now noticing that Natalie has her back to them, "you remember that time...."

"About what your dad said to you? After that tragedy at your first dance?"

She wants to shake her head at his intuition but she presses on. "Thank you. Thank you for trying...for trying to make me see myself how you see me."

He watches her carefully, his eyes guarded but hopeful. "Thank you for putting that picture in the living room," he says softly.

She nods. "It is beautiful," she murmurs.

He reaches over with the arm on the back of the couch between them, brushing back her hair from her jaw. "You were beautiful," he says, " That night. Every night. All the time."

She gives a little smile, but looks down. 

"I meant every word I said earlier today," Tom says, brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers to get her to look up. 

"I know," she sighs. "I know I'm...beautiful." She can hardly believe the word came out. Her lips twist into something like a smirk. "In my way."

Tom is staring at her, wide-eyed and slightly open-mouthed, but smiling. "Do you?" he whispers.

She nods. Unexpectedly, there are tears in her eyes. 

He cups her face in his hand, his fingers sliding around her jaw to bring her closer to him. "You are," he tells her. No cajoling. Just matter of fact.

Dr. Summers has returned to her position across from them and is watching, her eyes dancing.

"My beautiful Agnes," he whispers against her skin. The tip of his strong English nose slides against the curve of her cheekbone. She leans into his warm breath. 

Dr. Summers had pressed the pen into her mouth, biting it to keep from speaking and breaking their moment. But after a few minutes of the husband and wife lost in their little world, she clears her throat. Tom looks over his shoulder at her, as if he'd forgotten she was there, while Agnes just opens her eyes, as if waking up from a dream.

"Okay, well, I'm still going to recommend these books," Natalie says, handing a list on a piece of notebook paper to Tom, who takes it quickly, seemingly unembarrassed at being caught in an intimate moment. "I know you two may have started to figure it out, but what we discussed some time back, about your sex life, could be contributing to some of your issues."

Neither one looks surprised, although they do exchange an awkward look. 

"Both Gregory Popkak and Christopher West talk about the importance of intimacy," Dr. Summers says. "It's quite probably this renewal of intimacy between you two that is contributing to this 'high' you're currently experiencing. You've been apart, and now you're sharing things and really listening to each other on a much deeper level than previously. You need to learn to continue that. You know how to pleasure each other, but pleasure is not the ultimate goal of the marital act -- even though it is a very important affect, truly. It's the intimacy, the act of joining the body is supposed to be indicative of joining the spirits. Tom, not that your efforts weren't valiant," Dr. Summers says, and this earns her another brief flush, "but they were putting too much effort on the physical part of the act, to the point where I suspect it became more important than the actual meaning of it."

"The priest who married us made me read this one," Tom says, pointing to one of the books on the list. "I didn't understand half of it."

"It's been a while for both of us," Agnes reassures him. "We used to like reading together. This gives us somewhere to start." 

Tom clears his throat. "Going to make a few things more difficult," he mutters.

Dr. Summers shakes her head. "While it is good that the two of you are abstaining, until things feel more stable," she says, "you also need to remember that you are still married, and while renewing your vows is an excellent idea, it's a reminder of what you already have. And not all intimacy necessarily leads to sexual activity. Most of it, in fact, doesn't. Popkak points out that making love is not just the physical act of sex, but how you two treat each other all day, every day. That is something I suggest you concentrate on in the coming weeks. But if the strain becomes too much, or you both feel that the moment is right, then I would not suggest you hesitate."

\--------------------------

The "high" Dr. Summers speaks of is exactly that -- a high. 

They drift through the next few days. Agnes goes to look at the storyboards for Tom's short film, she talks with Richard, she gives her opinion on the structure of the narrative, and asks questions about the characters. It is so interesting to see Tom in this role -- having to think about so many other things than just how his part fits into the mix. Tom was always good at knowing everything that was going on, but he's never had to give it this level of concentration before. He has pages and pages of notes, some of them organized, some of them a mess of post-it notes. 

In the evening, he struggles to organize things. He sits at his desk and ponders the structure, modifies little things here and there, then seems to decide to rearrange everything drastically only to mostly put it back again.

This, Agnes knows, has always been one of Tom's issues. Committing to something. Before he'd married her, she sincerely doubted he'd ever settle down with anyone for any reason. It was one of the points of her resistance. She wasn't going to sink everything into a relationship with him only to find it a waste of time.

Love -- although it's too small a word to encompass what happens to two people when they decide to join their lives together -- it strong enough to overcome that resistance, but it slips into other parts of Tom's life. He always waits until the last minute to say yes to a role, until he's sure. And now he's flopping around on how he wants to create his first film, the first time he's the one showing the world his own way of looking at things.

Agnes gently reminds him that he doesn't have to show the world everything the first time off. Sometimes it's better to just show a little, and then reveal more over time. After all, this isn't going to be the only project like this he'll ever have. This is only a beginning.

"Is it like that for you, when you're creating a story?" he asks her a week after she's returned, and she is working at a little desk she's put in his study, across from his. She's been re-reading and editing what she has done from her new novel, smoothing over some of the rough edges. Tom asked her to do what work she could in his study with him -- invited her is probably more of a proper term, but the anxiety underlining his invitation had made it seem more like a plea. It's little wonder why -- he bombards her with a thousand tiny questions that, individually, seem insignificant. But she knows he's piecing things together in his mind. In editing mode, she can handle this kind of interruption, but she knows she'll have to go back to her study again when time comes to continue her own narrative. She's always needed isolation, or at the very least, company that keeps its mouth shut.

"I usually know where I want to end up, or where I want to begin. Sometimes both, sometimes only one," she answers. "I have an idea of my theme before I start, but other things crop up. Most of the best decisions I've made about my stories come while I'm writing it. Come on, Tom, you used to always say plan, plan, plan, then forget it and just do it."

Tom sighs. He's on the floor that night, papers spread around him like a grid. "We start shooting the first scenes next week," he says. "Tomorrow we're doing our first rehearsal."

"Trust your instincts, Tom," she encourages him. "And it's okay if you screw up a little. It wouldn't be normal if you didn't."

He's jittery and nervous. He continuously picks at his facial hair, runs his fingers through the curls on top of his head until they start to annoy her with their unruliness. 

"Get back on your chair," she tells him, mildly, although both of them know it's an order. "Please," she adds.

Tom obeys. There is a bit of a scowl on his face but he gets into his chair. She rolls hers around so that she's sitting behind him. She slides her foot to the pump on his chair and lowers him a good foot, because the man is so damn tall, even sitting, that she can't reach his shoulders.

"Relax, my darling," she whispers against his mussed hair. And then her hands go to work.

It's been a long time since she's massaged him, but her hands remember his body. She starts with long strokes down his shoulders, and then Tom stops her for a moment so he can pull off his thin T-shirt and let her go at his bare skin. She presses her fingers into the lines of his neck and pushes all the tension down and out. She kneads his shoulders, using both hands on first one side and then the other. She circles her thumbs into the muscles, going along his spine, all the way up into his hairline, following the line down until she lands between his shoulder blades and then kneads his shoulders again. She repeats the pattern a few times, until the worst of the tension is gone. Then she stands, and grasps Tom's head between her hands, pressing the heels of her hands against the area behind his ears, using her fingers to support the rest of him, and carefully and gently rotates his neck. 

He'd first done this to her, a long time ago. She is amazed she remembers this much.

The noises Tom makes while she does this -- a few grunts, a few long moans, then soft, high pitched whimpers as she goes at a particular knot -- are borderline pornographic. When she's done, he leans back, his head resting between her breasts, gazing up into her face.

"You're amazing, you know that?"

"I know." She kisses his forehead. "And I'm starving and I don't feel like cooking, so we're getting take away."

He smiles up at her as she fixes the dark gold ringlets, further mussed by her massage of his scalp. "When are you going to let me read what you're working on?"

She gives a little start, which he feels. "Um. Well, it's going to be a while."

Tom gives a little frown.

"Probably around the same time you talk to me about your decision to convert." Because they still haven't discussed that yet. 

Other things have been dealt with. Skyping with Angie, promising her that she will return to help with wedding stuff when needed. Skyping with Malcolm, continuing her therapy, which she knows she needs. Both of those conversations had been draining -- both were concerned for her, both were happy but both were also cautious. And then reading one of the books off the list with Tom, talking about things that she had never directly talked about with him before and being impressed with not just his commitment, but his understanding.

Other things have sort of gotten lost in the shuffle.

"Well," he says slowly, but keeps his head resting against her, as she continues to run her fingers along the skin of his neck and cheek. "I go to my class tomorrow. Do you want to come?"

"How many classes have you gone to?"

"I've been going about a month, so...this will be five, probably." He lifts up his head, wraps his fingers around her wrist and gently pulls her around to seat her on his lap. He supports her with his arms around her hips, holding her in place. She has always been a bit self-conscious about being on Tom's lap -- mostly because her bum is so wide and if she's sitting wrong his bony knee presses into her and causes discomfort -- but the chair is low, and she can brace her feet against the floor. She circles her arms around his neck.

"I'd like you to come," he says. "That way you know what I'm hearing so you can clarify anything I didn't understand and of course, stomp out any accidental heresies."

They both chuckle.

"I have to admit, I'm surprised," she says.

He nods. "It's...not an easy decision. Mum is going to be a bit cross with me, abandoning the C of E, but, well...as you've so fondly pointed out over the years..."

"Let's not get into that," she says, tweaking his ear. "I'm not in the mood to trash the crazy King Henry Eight."

"Right." He gives her a little smirk, but dutifully drops the thread. "Dad's probably going to be irritated, but..." He gives a half-shrug. "Not my motivation."

Agnes heart gives a little clench. She always felt so bad for people who wanted to convert and had to deal with the resistance of their parents. She knew the strong influence her own parents had over her upbringing, over her faith development, and although she'd taken firm control of her religious path over the years, she also knew the power of that weight, and how it could still anchor her.

And Tom...who would anchor him?

Would it be her?

"What made you decide to do this?" she asks plainly. 

He hedges. His face was also so expressive, and she can read it plainly. His lips scrunch, his nose wrinkles, his eyes squint, he shakes his head and then releases those muscles, going slack. Then his hands tighten on her, pulling her closer, nearly restraining her.

"I'm afraid that however I put this, you're going to take it the wrong way."

Agnes almost rolls her eyes. "When you say things like that, it's actually worse than if you just say it," she says, her voice a bit edgy.

He sighs. "I know. Look, the truth is...this has been coming for a while. Over the years. On and off. But with things between us being...well, over the last few years with all the strain I just didn't know how to approach it so I kept putting it off. And when things really started going to hell, I wanted to more than ever, but I was convinced it would just come across as a ploy and that you would object--"

"Object! To you converting?"

"Yes, Agnes! Come on, you've been extremely clear that -- no, stay here--" he orders as his hand goes farther up, sinking in the softness of her natural waist, as she attempts to push herself upright in preparation to stand. "You've been very clear that you never wanted me to convert as an effort to please you, or because I felt pressured. I didn't know how to make you see that it wasn't for either of those things."

"So I've been holding you back?" she asks in a small voice, after she realizes he isn't angry at her.

"No, not intentionally," he says. "Because for a long time I worried it was because of those things. You have no idea, Aggie," he says, his voice taking on a strain that makes her heartbeat accelerate, "how much you've influenced me over these years. I mean, I've always been Mr. Independence, and that included in my thinking, but I hear you in my head, all the time...not nagging, not arguing with me, but just...gently. Some snippet of something you said just pops up at me, and I admit I don't always listen, but...it's there. It's part of me."

She stares at him. Her arms slowly slide back along his neck, anchoring herself to him again. "I hear you too," she whispers.

"Do you?"

"I...used to." She doesn't want to tell him this, it feels like an unnecessary hurt. "Before all this started. I've been pushing it away, pushing it out. But I want to let it back in."

His eyes turn a bit glassy. "I've hurt you so much, Aggie."

She shakes her head. "I hurt you too. Remember, we're moving past that." She runs her hand through the hair on the back of his neck. "And if you want this, I will completely support you. No explanations necessary. If it's what you want."

"It is." She believes him. 

\-----------------------------------------

The class is pretty typical, Agnes thinks. They always feed them with milk before giving them meat. She spends some of the time thinking of books that Tom should probably read and tapping them out into a list on her phone. Even Tom seems a bit restless -- most of this stuff he should know, she thinks, but it never hurts to hear it again.

"We haven't made an appointment to see Fr. Greene," Tom says during the break as he sips at a Styrofoam cup of Earl Grey while she drinks apple juice and munches the Oreos. The priest was thrilled to see them together at Mass, and told them that they needed to come by his office, to catch up, after some of the things they hinted at happening in their short, rather public conversation.

"We can do that tomorrow," Agnes says.

"I have to see Dr. MacGregor tomorrow," Tom says. "In the afternoon. When we go from rehearsals to filming I'm going to get bogged down into long days and won't be able to make any appointments for a couple of weeks. Except with Dr. Summers," he adds quickly. "I've already cleared that with Richard."

Agnes nods, but secretly worries. She knows how Tom gets when he works. His entire head goes into his project. He may go with her to see Dr. Summers, but she doesn't know what good it will do. He might just be a warm body in the room. 

"Maybe we can get in before filming starts," Tom says hopefully as he dumps the rest of his tea. He takes her hand as they head back to their seats, holds it for the remainder of the class, resting it on his thigh. His pale hands feel slightly cold -- a sign of his nerves, she knows. There is so much on his plate, between working on their marriage, his film, his own therapy...

No, she tells herself sternly. She is not going to shrink from this. She is not going to feel guilty and selfish for expecting Tom to put her first. Because Tom has put her first, and made it clear he fully intends to continue to do so.

Yet she wants to do whatever she can to help him juggle it all. 

Tom is out most of the next morning, after his job and shower and a bite of breakfast. He works on his film, feeling the momentum grow, and then goes to his therapy appointment. Agnes takes the morning to tear her way through as much of Helena's story as she can, the haughty publisher whose first love wants another chance. Morning is not her usual time to write but she wants to be done with her allotted time before Tom returns in the late afternoon so she doesn't have any distractions. 

Sitting on the couch at around four, she reads through the next chapter, knowing Tom is ahead of her because he read it last night, after they got home, saying he wanted to make sure he got it done before he went to work because after that it would fly out of his head. She knows part of the reason is because he's too jittery to sleep -- they've had more than one cuddling session on their shared bed when the mood of the house started to become too tense. 

So when he comes home, at first Agnes mistakes the look on his face for exhaustion. He sits down on the couch beside her, knees bent and spread, his hands dangling between his thighs. He stares ahead, then lets his head slide back to rest on the back of the couch.

Agnes puts the book down. She turns and runs her fingers back through his hair from his brow in a combing motion. "You stayed up too late, didn't you?" she coos gently. "Need some coffee?"

Tom turns his head a little and looks at her. She is startled by his eyes -- they are dark, a smoky greenish grey, and then, without prelude, his entire face crumples like a cave-in, and his chest and shoulders heave with a great, gasping sob.

For a moment Agnes doesn't know what to do. He slumps forward, his face in his hands, as if he can't bear to look at her. Instinctively, she grabs his shoulders and pulls him toward her, and he tilts across her lap, still stuck in the bent position of his heaving. She pulls him as close to her as she can get, folding over him, trying to keep him from rolling onto the floor. But Tom suddenly shifts, and extends himself, belly down, across the couch, his chest across her lap, both arms wrapped around her waist, his face pressing into her ribs as the sobs come, loud and wracking, as if his world is ending.

She leans back against the couch, pinned into position, and can no nothing but stroke his back, his hair, as she waits. She feels a thin little trickle of fear. If there was another affair, one he never told her about, and now he's dealing with that guilt, and terror that she's going to leave him...well, quite frankly he would be right. She could not handle another revealed secret. They've worked so hard and she's endured so much to finally decide to forgive him. She can't go back to that. She can't go back to that swirling pool of sewage that is her self-pity and self-loathing and doubt. 

A memory comes to her. Cradling one of the Hemsworth children, the fourth one after the two twin boys, and Tom, still fluttering around her, desperate for her attention, trying to impress her with how good he was with the kids, but the little girl wouldn't calm down, even though she was changed, fed, and ready for bed. She had taken the little girl and tried various things that worked for her niece and nephew, but the wee one was stubborn. Angela chuckled at her.

"Sing," she said.

"Sing what?" Agnes replied.

"Sing a song," Angie quipped. "Sing out loud. Sing out strong."

"Sing of good things, not bad," Agnes chuckled, and the little rumble got the girl's last wail to taper off. "Sing of happy, not sad," she sang gently, remembering the tune to the Karen Carpenter song. 

"Sing," Agnes whisper-sings, "sing a song.   
Make it simple, to last your whole life long.   
Don't worry that it's not good enough  
For anyone else to hear.  
Just sing. Sing a song."

The storm starts to pass. Tom always was a bit of a tempest, blowing in hard and then fading out quickly. But he lies there for a few minutes, until Agnes cradles him around his shoulders to her chest like a baby, and his head rests against her shoulder. She has to shove a pillow under his ribs, convinced this position can't be comfortable, but he doesn't try to get up.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking up at her with eyes bright from tears. In this state, his eyes are like aquamarine gemstones, brilliant minty-green-icy-blue. 

She just holds him. "You want to tell me what happened?" But even she can hear the hitch in her voice.

"I just...it was a rough session today," he says, his voice jagged with tears. "Something...something just hit me today."

"Anything I should know about?" She massages his shoulder.

He considers. "I hope you'll forgive me for not putting this in the most delicate way, but it hit me today how untrue I've been to you, long before I even knew you."

"I've told you before, Tom, I don't hold your past again you."

"Yes, but I do," he says, looking away from her. "And I know you realize it, too, how I was...how much damage I did to myself, and to us by extension. I know you tried to explain it to me, when you were trying to get me to give up on you. All those other women, Anges. I used them and let them use me. Over and over." He winces, the tears rising again. "I just...sometimes I feel like we're never, ever alone. Like sometimes I can't get the rest of them out of my head. When you and I would make love, some comparison, some memory would pop into my head and...and I would find the moment disrupted, soiled, somehow. And I would get angry at myself and deny it, but over time...over time I just started hating myself for it."

She strokes his hair, his face. "I know you're probably going to think I sound a bit medieval, but the truth is, Tom, that's the devil at work. Trying to destroy something beautiful. That's what he does. You have to forgive yourself for those things. He's using that anger against you." 

He shakes his head, still pressed against her chest. "Dr. MacGregor was talking about the same thing. And he was pressing how important it was to forgive myself, for what I did, for what I did to you, to me, to us." 

"He's right."

Tom flinches. "I...I just...don't know if I can. And I didn't realize all this anger I was carrying around...at myself. And I'm scared...scared that if I do forgive myself, I'll forget. I'll forget how this feels." He raises his hand, fingers caressing her cheek. His thumb traces the laugh lines around the right side of her mouth. "You have absolutely no idea how grateful I am that you came back. You just...you don't know."

"I'm getting an idea," she murmurs.

He shakes his head, buries it so that his brow and the plane between his brows presses hard against the middle of her breastbone, over her heart. His hands against her back fist her shirt. 

"I have so much to make up to you," he groans.

She runs the fingers of her right hand along the scruffy cheek that she can reach. "Tom," she says, lightly tapping the skin to get his attention. "Tom, we...we can't do that. I know it still hurts, sometimes--" He squeezes harder, temporarily making breathing and talking difficult -- "but the only way we're ever going to keep going is if we forgive. Especially ourselves. There are things I have to forgive myself for, too. And you aren't going to forget this. You don't have to keep hating yourself to remind yourself of what not to do again. Especially if we rebuild to make our marriage strong enough so that these sort of things won't have a chance to crop up again."

"But it won't be the same," he says with a shake of his head, looking up at her. "What if we can't ever--"

She scowls at him, "Are you giving up?"

"Never," he whispers. "But...God, Agnes." One hand goes to her neck, fingers loosely sliding around it, attempting a caress but ending up more of a grasp, "I want to atone," he says, his voice getting firmer.

"We all do," she says with a little shrug, although she can't move her shoulders much, pushed back against the couch like she is. But she finds that she likes it-- she has always liked being buried under his weight. 

"If I tell you I'm sorry, every now and again, for no apparent reason..."

She shakes her head, but smiles. "You are certainly getting into the stereotypical Catholic guilt," she teases.

"Agnes," he looks anguished, "I'm serious."

"So am I. But I know. It's still going to take time. We feel very different now than we did two months ago, one month ago, last year at his time...we don't know how we're going to feel a year from now. So let's just go one day at a time, okay? And today you're feeling bad, and I'm comforting you." She strokes the side of his face like a child's. "And if you want to atone, Tom, well, that's what the rest of our marriage is for."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will probably be Wednesday or Thursday next week.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Agnes take a walk, meet with Fr. Greene, and generally be disgustingly cute and intimate. I apologize in advance for this chapter if you get sugar overload.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this is a bit rough, I apologize because it's unbeta'd and I wrote like five pages of it this afternoon while babysitting. So if things don't connect right let me know and I'll try to fix it. Updates are probably going to stay permanently on Wednesdays from now on.

"You realize if we go out there, the paps are going to see us," Agnes points out as she pulls on her walking shoes.

Tom shrugs. "Let them. Let them get pictures of us walking together. Nice and boring. The Hiddlestons are back together. No more scandal, boo hoo."

She smiles up at him. The humidity that has squashed the city is finally lifting, and while there are some rain clouds on the horizon, the cool air is too irresistible and Tom wants to go for a walk. Later in the day they're going to go see Father Greene, and the mood between them is light and sweet. Tom suggests going past a cafe they used to frequent for an early lunch, but he hints that there's something he wants to show her.

Tom's long legs could easily outpace her shorter, thicker ones, but he stays slow, holding her hand, smelling the coming rain. It starts to sprinkle about fifteen minutes into their stroll, and by the time they reach the cafe, it's a steady downpour.

Agnes orders grilled cheese and tomato soup. It's perfect for a rainy day. It was still too hot for raincoats but Tom brought their huge black and grey striped umbrella. Even pressed together underneath it, Agnes complains that her bum still got wet. Tom playfully tries to wipe it with some paper towels as they approach their table. 

"I'll just have to use my hand to shield you on the way back," he teases as they get comfortable. He orders French onion soup and some beans on toast, an English delicacy of which she will never, ever understand the appeal.

The paps do catch them. Tom has been doing this long enough that he can spot them a mile away. He has always been gracious to them, known how they can be irritating and pushy, and figuring that if he treats them with respect and smiles for their cameras, they won't harass him. Mostly he's right. Although when he first returned to London, he tells Agnes, he got a bit snippy with the few at the airport that asked where his wife was, and if she'd left him. This time, the pictures that come up with the headline, "REUNITED???" are of him smiling, her smiling, arms around each other, or hands tightly held.

They sit and talk about things, sharing little odd bits that they'd collected during their time apart. The little moments of their days that would have been shared at supper or when one of them got home from wherever he or she had been that day. Agnes shows Tom the bridesmaids dress that Angie has picked out, the picture on her phone.

"That's lovely," he says. "I thought bridesmaids dresses were supposed to be ugly so the bride wouldn't be overshadowed."

"Only the brides that have to worry about that do that sort of thing," Agnes replies. "Angela is the last person to get overshadowed."

"Except by you," Tom says with a little wink. Agnes just shakes her head. Of course she's not as pretty as Angela, but she knows what Tom means.

"I'm going to have to head back to L.A. in the late summer," Agnes says. "Wedding stuff."

Tom nods. "Richard is talking about an editing studio in L.A. after the film is done. We may be going back sooner than that." He pauses, considering. "What would you think if we got a permanent place there?"

"In L.A.?" Agnes asks. "You don't mean--"

"Well," Tom says, leaning over the table with his arms folded across his chest, lowering his voice, "it wouldn't be unthinkable. I mean, Los Angeles was your home for a long time. You didn't go back to Indiana when we separated. You stayed in L.A. I always felt like...like you've made most of the sacrifices in this relationship. You moved to London for me. You travel around to stay with me during filming. I think having at least a semi-permanent place in Los Angeles would be helpful, that way we wouldn't have to worry about if the production is going to put us up somewhere reasonable. It would be nice to have it be consistent, to have it be a real home."

Agnes considers his words. Then, after a pause, she leans forward as well, reaching out to rest her hand on his wrist. 

"Tom, to a certain extent, maybe I have done that. I've followed you on a few adventures, and a few times it's been harder on me to adjust than on you. We agreed when we got married that we'd give your career priority over mine -- it was the least compromise I could make, considering I'd run you through the hoops on making sure you'd honor my Catholicism."

Tom unfolds one arm, covering her hand sitting on his wrist. "But we have to find a better balance," he says. "We've tried being more independent of each other, and it's just caused us distance and strain. But we can't be falling all over each other all the time."

"I know. I know you like your independence."

"It isn't that," Tom says with a shake of his head. "Not...not anymore. I like having you there with me. I like knowing that when I come home from a long shoot, you'll be there. But I can't treat you like I expect you to drop everything for me at a moment's notice. And I know we both need private time, sometimes more, sometimes less."

"I think if we just make more effort to take care of each other, like you said," Agnes says. "I mean, it sounds ridiculously trite to say it like that, but we have to make each other a priority. Not just someone who gets the leftovers of our time or when we don't have anything better to do. And I'm not talking about sharing interests, that's never been a big issue, I mean actually being together and it being about each other. About us."

"Yes, I agree completely," Tom replies. "But I still want to do this. I want to set up a more permanent situation in L.A. I like L.A., and I know you'll be happy knowing it's part of our home."

"All...all right," Agnes agrees. She traces over Tom's wristbone for a long moment, and feels word starting to edge their way into her consciousness, slowly making their way toward her mouth. "Do you know why I like being in Los Angeles?"

Tom frowns, gives her that intense listening face. 

"It isn't about that place or any other, really. I mean, the reason I didn't go to be with my family in Indiana, and stayed in L.A. It wasn't about the surroundings. It was about being with people who need me."

She isn't quite sure where these words are coming from. She also isn't sure if she's ever said anything like this to Tom before, to anyone. A truth about herself, that she's always known but never expressed concretely, starts to formulate.

"My parents don't need me, my sister doesn't," she says. "They love me, I know, they all love me very, very much. But they don't need me. My being there doesn't add to their lives in...not in any way significant. My mother would disagree, but it's a truth I've always suspected. And when I decided, before we happened, that I was going to stay single, it wasn't because I didn't want to love anyone. It was because I didn't think I needed anyone, and I didn't think anybody would ever need me."

Tom leans forward. His face has taken on a strange intensity, as if he understands the significance of her words. She hopes he does. This feels like the most intimate thing she's ever told anyone. 

"Angela needs me. I knew that from the beginning of our friendship. She loves me and she needs me. I make a contribution to her life that I can see and feel, and she does the same for me. That was why I was living in her house all those months, even though I didn't have to. I could have lived on my own. But she wanted me there. We have a unique friendship where we can actually be roommates and still be friends. And when I met you...you were very independent. I didn't think you'd ever need me. And I think, to a very real extent, that somehow, I thought my own lack of needing anyone, and your lack of needing anyone, would balance each other out. That we could love each other and that would be enough. And I was so afraid of needing you and you not needing me back. Does this...does this make any sense?"

Tom's hand, wrapped over hers sitting on his wrist, tightens, the tips of his fingers finding the grooves between her knuckles and pressing. "It does," he says very quietly.

"And honestly, Tom, for a long time, I thought you didn't. I mean, you seemed to at first, but I always felt more like you were humoring me to keep me happy, doing that whole catering thing that newlyweds do to each other. But after some time I felt that you were just as good without me as you were with me. And I was afraid that if you figured that out, you'd wake up from whatever spell you were under and we'd be done. So I pretended to be independent, too, mostly to protect myself. But I'm not, Tom. I'm not. The thing that makes me happiest in the world is when you need me. When you...depend on me. Sometimes I feel it when you touch me. Sometimes when you can't stop touching me -- that would drive other people crazy but I've always loved it. I know sometimes I get withdrawn, but it's usually because I feel like nobody needs me. And if nobody does, then I just want to go away and not bother anyone. I hate being where I'm not wanted. I hate the thought of forcing myself on people who don't want me."

"Have I...ever made you feel that way?" He knows the answer but he wants to hear it, she can see it in his face.

"Sometimes," she whispers.

Tom nods, leans closer so that she can hear him better. No matter how hard it might have been for her to confess what she has, she knows it's even harder for him.

"I do need you, Agnes," Tom says. "And those aren't just words to make you feel better. I need you and sometimes I totally resent you because of how much I need you. I've never liked needing anyone. It's probably the reason why I'm friends with everyone, so nobody gets to take pride of place. I've been that way for as long as I can remember. Dr. MacGregor thinks it's something I learned from my parents' divorce, as cliché as that sounds. Don't need anybody and they can't hurt you. But I've always needed you. I probably haven't wanted you to know how much, or treated you well because of it. Which sounds so utterly backwards and twisted when I say it out loud."

His voice has been soft and nearly monotone with his confession, as if it hurts so much he has to detach himself from it to get it out. But when his eyes meet hers, they are so bright and intense, the colors flickering as his words change. 

"Thank you for saying it, though," she comforts him. "I needed to hear it."

He nods. "I want to not be afraid of how much I need you. And I also don't want to feel like I'm smothering you, because I know how much I'd hate to be smothered myself."

"Do I smother you?" she asks, not petulantly but out of genuine concern.

"No, you've always been keenly aware of my moods. But sometimes...I think it wouldn't //be// smothering. Do you know what I mean?"

She gives a little nod. "Honestly, Tom, I think you'd get tired of smothering me before I got tired of being smothered."

"Sounds like a challenge."

"I think, though," she says, before she can give in to that little grin on his face, "that's why I've been willing to sacrifice for you. Because I wanted to feel needed. It doesn't matter what it is. I mean, I'd hate sitting around all day on a set with you, but if you were directing and you had a job you wanted to trust me with...I would put whatever I was doing in second place for that. I'm not saying I want to be a doormat, but...it's the way I feel like I'm important."

"You're important, Agnes, regardless," he reassures her. "And I have too much respect for your work to yank you away from it for my whims."

"Not a whim, Tom. But something you wanted me to contribute. Something that uses my talents. I'm not saying you have to think up something for me to do. But, please, know you can ask me. Don't ever hesitate because you think you'd be imposing on me."

Tom sighs, rubs the curling hairs that sprinkle his chin. "All right. I'll keep that in mind. But in the meantime, there was something I wanted to show you." He glances out the cafe window. "Looks like the rain is letting up."

The something turns out to be a park a bit out of their way, a fifteen minute walk from the cafe. There's a lane filled with trees that have pretty pink flowers, and they arch over each other, creating a canopy. The rain has knocked down a bunch of the flowers, scattering them in puddles, and the lovely gray sky that peeks between the branches creates the perfect contrast.

Agnes stands and stares at it for a long minute. Not too many people are walking around, fearing that it will start raining again, so they have the lane to themselves.

"I saw it one morning on my run," Tom whispers to her. 

"It's beautiful," she says.

Tom pulls her closer, wrapping his arm around her waist and drawing her in. "Come on."

They take several steps into the lane, letting drops fall on them, catching the occasional descending petal. Tom stops them in the middle, and turns to her. He grasps her left hand, and lifts it.

"May I borrow these?" he asks, gently removing her wedding rings.

Agnes just watches and waits. 

"Six months ago," he says slowly, toying with the rings, "I thought my life was over. And the worst part was, it wasn't actually over -- I still had to keep going. I was...diminished. The best thing about me -- and the person I needed most in the world -- was gone."

Agnes can't help it. She shakes her head. Tears flood her eyes, and she wants to tell him that he would have found a way to regain himself, but knows he won't hear it. 

"And I deserved it," he says, with a touch of steel in his voice. "I did it to myself. And I kicked and screamed and fought against it and just made it worse. But then...then God took pity on me." She realizes then that his eyes are flooded with tears, too. His hands go to her face, bracing her cheeks on each side, his thumbs tracing the laugh lines of her face, the shape of her lips, as he speaks. "Agnes, when we first started to prepare for get married, one of the things they asked us about our relationship was -- did it bring us closer to God? And I honestly didn't understand that question. I believed in God, yes, but I compartmentalized it. God was here, my career was there, and you were in another part. It was all separated. But you showed me...it doesn't work like that. And over the years, being with you has brought me closer to Him. So much closer than I ever was before. And I promise you, this time, I give you my word, as your husband, my first promise to you, my first responsibility, will be to bring you closer to Him as well. Because that was what I was always supposed to be doing. And I wasn't. I see that now."

Regardless of the puddles, Tom kneels down. "Agnes Therese Hiddleston, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, again?"

Agnes is so overcome with tears that all she can do is nod and smile. Tom understands. He gets on his feet and then they're kissing in that rainy lane. And it's perfect.  
\----------------------------

"It's good to see you, Agnes," Fr. Greene tells her as he settles himself down at his desk. "This one has looked as lost as an abandoned puppy without you around."

Tom's smile doesn't drop -- if anything, it gets wider as he squeezes her fingers. Their chairs are shoved closer together than they were when they first sat down. He has hardly stopped touching Agnes since their moment in that rainy lane. Tom hadn't completely planned on doing that, he told her later. It had hit him hard the second they started to walk through that lane. They'd walked home slowly, almost trodding on each other's feet they were so close, but neither one cared. And he did put his hand on her bum when it started raining again on their walk home, and when Agnes changed out of her wet clothes, she showed him the handprint the rain had traced around his fingers, and Tom had taken a picture of it on his phone before it dried, in spite of her half-hearted protests.

"But," Father Greene says, a touch on that sternness in his voice, "you two can't go getting all twittery-eyed. Things feel good right now because there's been a renewal of your feelings for each other. You're in a sort of second-honeymoon, and that's fine, but don't get carried away. You still need to deal with the same things that originally pulled you apart. You can't be afraid to speak out when something comes up because you're afraid of destroying the mood."

Both nod. 

"Now, Tom mentioned to me about a renewal of your vows. When would you like to do this?"

Tom and Agnes had talked about this in the hours between Tom's proposal and their appointment. They look at each other, as if for confirmation.

"We were thinking," Tom says, "in two months. I'm about to start on a film project and it's going to take up a lot of time, and I sort of want to take a trip after we do it, a second honeymoon, like you said. There's going to be a lot of stuff to deal with coming up...I don't want to rush through it and then run off like...well, like I normally do."

"And we want to keep it very small," Agnes says. "Maybe during the week, at a private Mass? Just us, and a few witnesses. We don't want to draw a bunch of attention to it, it's just for us."

"We don't want it to look like a publicity thing," Tom says.

"That shouldn't be a problem. Now, how has therapy been going?"

The two go through their lists. Tom talks about what he's covering with Dr. MacGregor, and Agnes tells Father Greene all about Malcolm, and of course they both talk about Dr. Summers, and her incredible patience. 

"You sound like you're working hard, I'm glad to hear it. I'm hearing, however, some concern about time issues. Tom, you're directing a short film. Agnes, you're finishing a novel."

Agnes feels her stomach give a little kick. She still hasn't had that conversation with Tom. She knows he's being patient, waiting for her to do it on her own, but she can't stall any longer. 

"I just don't want to see you both bury yourselves in work and lose the intimacy you're rebuilding. It's important to work but not to the exclusion of the other."

"I've been thinking about that, but I had been concerned about keeping Agnes from finishing up her story," Tom says. "But we had a conversation this afternoon and I think I've changed my mind."

"What were you thinking about?" Agnes asks him.

"I wanted to create some kind of production diary. We could post it online and use the resources we already have to spread the word about the film. I mean, it's not going to get any major release but that didn't stop Joss from doing Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog."

"We could put up a whole website about it, and then post the film for a short period of time," Agnes suggests, ideas suddenly coming to her. "I could easily write some of the updates. Like doing an online journal, only for you instead of me."

"Are you sure?" Tom asks.

"It might be fun," she says with a shrug. "And we can get someone else from the production involved in case it gets to be too much, so they can help share the workload."

"Normally two people wouldn't get their work lives crossed into their married lives," Father Greene points out, "but since you two both work in the arts, it seems natural to share your talents. And since the projects are time consuming it is important to create something mutual in it, some way you can both participate. Agnes, you're working on a new novel?"

She mentally curses. She's not ready to hash this out in front of the priest. "Yes," she says. "It's...it's not quite done."

"What's it about?"

Tom can't help it -- he lets out a little chuckle. "She hates that question," he says in mock conspiracy to the priest. 

"Have you read it yet?" Fr. Greene asks him.

Tom shakes his head. "She won't let me. I don't usually get to beta read your stuff anymore because you say I'm too biased, but I would like to see it before it goes into publication," he tells her.

As Agnes looks at Tom, she finally feels the full impact of what she's done. In an effort to deal with her own pain, she had incorporated a lot of stuff into the story that he might consider too personal. And particularly, the relationship between Natalie and Henry are going to strike a chord with him, not to mention the divorced writer she was having trouble fully developing...

"It's five different stories," she says to Fr. Greene, keeping her voice level as she explains. "All of them are, on some level...dealing with broken relationships."

Tom's smile falls a bit, but it's more from the fact that he's listening. Maybe with the priest to moderate he won't freak out so badly.

"You know how I write, Tom," she says. "You know I've always used it to deal with my own issues...sometimes exploring imaginary scenarios, and sometimes taking real life ones and expanding on them."

"You told me the basic outline when we were emailing," Tom says. "I figured we were going to end up in there."

She shakes her head. "It's...it's not quite what you think. I've mixed enough truth into the fiction...I'm just worried when you read it, you're going to be upset. Maybe even angry. It might end up being too personal."

Tom turns this over in his head. Over the years, he's learned to recognize things in her writing. But this time, Agnes is sure he's going to have a problem with it. 

"Well, I won't know unless you let me read it," he tells her.

She nods. "Not until you finish filming," she says. "I don't want it to distract you."

"Agnes, I'm used to ending up here and there in your work. You have no idea how often you end up in my characters--"

"It's a lot more than just an anecdote here or there," she insists, but keeps her tone gentle. "It's...a lot, Tom. I mean a lot. I used a lot of..."

"What?" Tom presses when she stalls.

"I used a lot of our first couple of years," she says. "And then stuff later on, but in different stories. And it's very emotional."

"While it's a good idea to have your own way of processing your life," Fr. Greene says, reminding them where they are, "it's also important to take other people's feelings into consideration. Now, I'm not saying anything, but...perhaps, Agnes, if you feel this hesitant, the two of you need to talk about if this book should be published, or if things need to be changed before it is published, to respect all parties concerned. At least a disclaimer."

"I usually have those," Agnes murmurs.

Tom squeezes her hand. "It's going to be fine, Agnes," he reassures her. "We'll work it out. Don't let yourself get worked up over it."

Agnes nods. Those words are a mantra to her over the next few months.

\--------------------------------

Of all the storylines, the divorced writer whose director ex-husband wants the film rights to the novel that is running throughout the book is the one that's given Agnes the most grief.

This surprises her because she didn't use a lot of her life to construct their background.

The woman is named Ulyssia Blackthorne, which sounds like a writer's name to Agnes if she's ever heard one. Ulyssia's parents had two children, a boy and a girl, and as they had ancestors heavily involved in the North's efforts during the civil war, they wanted to name their children after the most significant characters from that period of history. Her older brother was named Lincoln, but when it was discovered that she was a girl, Grant no longer applied, so they went with a female version of Ulysses, Ulyssia. Most people drop the long U when addressing her so Lyssa became her nickname.

Lyssa was a strongly independent person, but also an introvert by nature. She was a bit of a child prodigy as she published her first novel when she graduated high school and paid her own way through her NYU. Her parents were rather indifferent to her, so her closest relationship was with her brother. She met her husband, Preston Spencer, upon graduation, when he approached her for the movie rights to her second book, published while she was in her junior year of college. He was seven years her senior, a graduate of USC film school, and already making a name for himself as a rising star director, having been making and entering films in competitions all over the world since his college days. 

Both are highly ambitious people, and when they meet, it's kismet. Preston understands her novel on a level few people have ever demonstrated to her, and wants her to collaborate with him on creating the screen play. He becomes a tutor, showing her how film storytelling is different than writing novels, but that certain things can still be accomplished by both. 

Their movie winds up winning several academy awards, including best director and best screenplay adaptation. Soon after the two are married. She's twenty-five and Preston is thirty-two. She has two children with him, a boy conceived on their wedding night, and a girl two years later. Unfortunately, complications during the second childbirth cause her to have to have a hysterectomy and Lyssa is able to have no more children.

And this is where Lyssa's life and Agnes' connect. 

Ten years into their marriage, Preston's career is not where he wants it to be, and a major box office flop start to stall his career and get him labeled as "has-been." Lyssa, however, sells the film rights to another novel and her name starts to eclipse her husband's, when before they'd been a powercouple. This damage to Preston's pride also damages their marriage, and it becomes a tabloid headline when he has an affair with the female lead in his next film, which causes that film to suffer in the box office due to the surrounding scandal. 

The couple manages to survive it, with years of counseling. Five years of therapy, after months of separation, as Lyssa took the children and fled to an isolated property her family owned in North Carolina to get away from the humiliation, as well as protect the kids from hearing their parents dragged through the mud. Preston takes full responsibility, realizes the harm he's done to his family, and the two are able to reconcile.

But then upon their twentieth anniversary, Lyssa learns he's done it again. Although this time, it is her son who discovers the newest, youngest star in his father's hotel room when he makes a surprise visit, and although the two never slept together, the sexual flirtation between them has been, in Lyssa's eyes, the equivalent. Sexting, erotic conversations, and sheer neglect of his wife in favor of a starlet are enough to finally push Lyssa over the edge. She will not be reconciled a second time, no matter how Preston begs. 

So the novel opens five years after she leaves him, although neither one ever files for divorce, and both children are well out of college, living their own lives. Lyssa refuses to have any voluntary contact with their father under any circumstances -- although involuntary contact has happened multiple times. She does not acknowledge him unless forced -- and by forced, it means without coming across as a total lunatic. Although Preston is not a meek character, he accepts her behavior without a single word of protest. He is linked to no one romantically, and is doing his penance in proverbial sackcloth and ashes. Lyssa is in a deep depression, as cutting Preston off emotionally has done nothing to make her happy, but instead obliterated any good memory of her life. The two characters are at a strange tension. It seems that Preston wants her back, but knows how angry she still is at him, and how she can't forgive him. He makes the offer for the film rights of her last novel (excerpts of which run through the book), knowing he has proper backing behind him, as there has been a strong call for a film to be made from it, and also having maneuvered things from his years of experience to make sure he will be the only choice to direct it. Lyssa wants to refuse, but knows financially she can't afford to. 

Preston wants them to collaborate again. He wants to show her he's still the same man she fell in love with. And he wants to prove he has paid his penance for his betrayal, and is determined to never let such a thing happen again. But can Lyssa abide giving him a third chance?

Agnes knows the novel is her own fears coming from Tom betraying her again. Now that she's decided to return to him and repair their marriage, the fear that he will do it again, no matter how happy and secure they seem, still lurks in the bottom of her heart, and manifests itself here. This storyline feels more poignant to her than before, and while Tom may have more of a personal reaction to Henry and Natalie's story, he may see her fears in this one, and she doesn't know how he will react to them. 

Of course, she still hasn't decided if Lyssa is going to try again. Giving up her two-decade marriage hasn't made her any happier than staying might have. 

Agnes stares at the ceiling in her bedroom as she lies awake, her brain refusing to shut off. Tom is in his own room, so when she finally breaks and decides to go after her laptop, she is relatively confident that she won't wake him.

It almost works. 

An hour into working, sitting up in her bed with the lights still off and only the glow of the screen to light her way, Agnes has one of her epiphanies and inadvertently gives a little yelp. She covers her mouth, and hers nothing from Tom's room, but about ten minutes later he's standing in her doorway.

"You're writing?" he asks sleepily.

"Sorry," she whispers.

He gives her a little grin. "Don't worry. I'll just hold this over your head later when I have to twist your arm to let me read it."

She expects him to turn about and head back to his bed, but instead he comes over and slides into the bed next to her. He curls the pillow under his head and gazes up into her face.

"Whatcha doin?" she asks, both bemused and amused.

"Smothering you," he replies, but his eyes are heavy, and he can't watch her for long, so he falls back asleep to the clicking sound of her fingers on the keys.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the first line goes, sometimes things are just going too well....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning. Everybody knows I don't write smut, and I didn't write any here. But sex, the actual marital act and not the activity that most people do for fun, is the main subject of this chapter, and if you feel sensitive to that, I don't want to be responsible for upsetting anyone's internal balance. I don't like showing the actual act between the couple because it is a private act and should not (IMO) be viewed by others. But for the sake of the narrative and the whole message of the story, I am including some rather intimate, private conversation here. Some of you are going to shake your heads and think all of this A/N is for nothing, but I know I have a few other readers out there who are sensitive, like me, and I want to be sure I've made myself clear to them.

It was going too well.

Agnes focuses on being positive, she knows it's key. She works on keeping things contained to one day at a time. 

Tom makes sure that he's home every Sunday. They don't shoot on Sundays, everyone gets the day off. It takes a few hours before he gets his brain to calm down enough, but eventually he wakes up with nothing but them on his mind, ready to work on their relationship.

Thursday nights are reserved for his catechism classes, and Dr. Summers gives them Saturday evenings for their therapy appointments, a personal sacrifice for her. But Sundays, he and Agnes go to an early Mass and then breakfast, and then decide what they want to do.

Tom has revived their afternoon tea custom, and with figs coming into season, he slices them into quarters, places them on top of rectangles of brie, and puts them on the club crackers that Agnes likes before drizzling everything lightly with honey. Then he gets some chocolate biscuits and they sit together and talk. Sometimes they watch a movie, mostly they read their book -- Tom reads out loud at Agnes' request. Sometimes they go for walks, or find something more adventurous to do -- like a little boat ride in the park, or go to a tennis match. Agnes knows Tom adores tennis and made an effort over the years to become familiar with the game, and while they can't go to Wimbledon every year, she has pulled a few strings to get him tickets this year. 

But even their cautious, positive attitude doesn't stop disaster from striking.

They lie together on the couch, Tom behind her, pressed up against the back. They're watching one of Agnes' favorite movies, The Perfect Host, starring David Hyde Pierce in a role she thinks is utterly brilliant. Tom finds her amusement at this oddball, rather dark comedy to be a bit of a turn on. He always liked Agnes' quirkier side. Their shared love of the picture of the little Chinese girl with her camel in the desert had been one of the things that made him absolutely sure she was the one for him. Framed copies of the print reside on the walls of both their studies.

Agnes' hip starts to hurt from where she's been lying on it, and she turns onto her back. 

"You okay?" Tom asks. 

"Maybe I should get up, go sit in the chair," she grunts, realizing she's almost half off the couch.

Tom pauses the film, pulls her toward him so that she's on her other hip. "No, don't get up," he says softly.

And then they're kissing.

Then they're making out like naughty teenagers. 

But it's not what it feels like, Agnes realizes. They murmur to each other, whispering sweet, affectionate things, reminding each other of their love in words even as they show it with their fingers and lips. It escalates, the touching, the connection, the closeness, and it starts to create a strange kind of frantic pressure. It's not a desperate sort of kissing and groping that comes with doing something wrong and wanting to do as much as possible before getting caught. It's sweet, gentle, loving, and at the same time, very passionate. 

It's Agnes who breaks first. "Can we move to the bedroom?" she whispers into the hairs along his neck. 

Then Tom blinks. He looks like someone who's waking up from a dream. He looks down at her, resting in the crook of his elbow, his hand up behind her, blocking the glare from the frozen television screen. "Um," he says. "I'm...I'm not sure it's a good idea."

Agnes is startled. She can count on one hand and still have fingers left, all the times that Tom has ever put on the breaks. Either he ate too much, or he was too stressed and couldn't relax enough. So it's a bit of a shock, feeling him against her thigh, and hearing his rejection.

"It's not?" she echoes stupidly, unable to put together more eloquent words.

"Aggie, it's...it's too soon. Don't you think?" Gently, he pushes her back, putting some air between them. 

//A little too fucking late to realize that now,// she thinks, but mutters, "Dr. Summers warned us not to get frustrated."

"Well, she said...I just think we should wait. We're a month down, it's only a month to go."

Agnes scrambles to sit up. She can't be this close to him any longer and...not. She feels like a car all revved up and then the key's been yanked out of the ignition. 

"Hey," Tom says, sitting up with her, his hands on her arms preventing her from getting off the couch entirely. "It's...I just think it's not the right time."

"Fine," she says tersely, settling herself back against the couch. "I'm not going to beg."

"Agnes."

She grabs the remote from him and starts the movie back up. She flashes him a smile. "It's fine," she repeats, a bit softer. "I respect your wishes. Let's finish the movie and go to bed. You have an early day tomorrow." 

He nods, but she can feel him watching her throughout the next few minutes. She concentrates on the movie, watching David Hyde Pierce's character terrorize the hapless sap who stupidly tried to con him, so he could mug him in his effort to run from the police, and tries to push down the feeling of humiliation that is slowly rising inside of her. 

She'd been working on her self-image efforts with Malcolm, but a rejection like this is a blow she struggles to take in stride. It starts with questioning if Tom really wanted her -- she had gained more than a few pounds and was struggling to get them off again, but her body was being stubborn. Maybe she smelled bad -- Tom was always highly olfactory sensitive, but he'd told her once, point blank, that she always smelled good to him, that even the tangy, salty scent she gave off when sweaty appealed to him. But she was getting older -- her forty-seventh birthday had come and gone during their separation, along with his forty-third. 

Or maybe...he just didn't want to. And he couldn't come up with a compelling enough reason, so he'd come up with that lame excuse.

The reasonable part of her knew she was being irrational, and tried to tell her so. She knew Tom wanted her. She knew they were trying to be careful. But the crazy, paranoid voices have been pushed down too long and now they had something to latch onto, and her heartbeat starts to accelerate and she can hear the whish-whish sound in her ears. 

Tom reaches out with one arm and wraps it around her shoulders, and scoots closer to her to wrap his other arm around her from the front. She ends up resting half-way against his chest. She knows, rationally she //knows// he's trying to reassure her, but the fear that it's just pity joins the other voices slithering in her ears.

Then the tears, hot and thick, start to slide from her eyes. She hates herself for this, the sudden emotional outburst. She tries to tell herself to stop, that she's being silly, but it's too easy. It's too easy to give in to the hurt. 

Her face burns and she scrunches, fighting down the sob. The second it comes out Tom is going to know. She doesn't want him to know. Please God, this has been humiliating enough, please don't let him see me cry.

It's too much. Her lungs suck in a sharp breath as the sob breaks free. And Tom feels the shudder.

"Agnes?" 

He leans forward, craning his neck to see her face in the light of the television, and gives out a gasp. "Oh, no, Aggie, please...no, no," he groans softly, but even as he tries to turn her to him she breaks free of his grasp and gets up, unable to stand this mortification.

Rage follows on the heels of embarrassment. An urge she knows she needs to fight down, words rising in her mouth that want out, even as her brain scrambles to beat them back. But she vomits them like acid.

"Sure, you can say 'no' to ME."

"Agnes!" Tom calls after her, but she goes into the bedroom, and she suddenly feels like she's suffocating. Suddenly it's a year ago and she's fleeing to this room because Tom just admitted to cheating on her. 

But that's not what this is, she tells herself, clenching her fists hard. 

She stands in the middle of their bedroom, and looks at the bed where she usually sleeps alone, and will probably sleep alone tonight. And it overwhelms her. The work. The slowness of the steps. The careful rebuilding to make the foundation new, to make it strong. The struggle. And now, this disaster, one step forward two steps back...She's so tired. 

But she doesn't shut the bedroom door. She continues into the bathroom and gently closes the door behind her. She does not lock it, but she knows Tom will get the message. She sits down on the edge of the tub and buries her face in her hands. And she lets herself cry.

She feels stupid and foolish and needy. She feels ugly -- what she said before, taking that cheap shot at him, at his infidelity...it was cruel and unnecessary, and served to do nothing but make herself feel even worse. She feels inadequate, and worthless. She's not some little slut throwing herself at a man too good for her. She's a wife asking for love from her husband.

And he said no.

Another burst of rage. Sure, he's around attractive women in his line of work all the time. Agnes knows Hollywood -- she knows it's soaked in sex, and Tom gets offers all the time, even though he only strayed (physically) that one time. Of course all those plastic surgeons and extreme workout queens make her look unappealing and dull.

She kicks the cabinets under the sink. Hard. The slamming sound gives her a mild dose of satisfaction. 

She grabs the few magazines off the rack and throws them. They flutter around and don't make a satisfying sound. She goes for the plastic bottles on the rim of the sink and heaves them into the wall of the tub behind her. 

After about five or six rounds of this she stares at what she's done. Nothing broken. Some cream spilled but that's about it. When she was younger she would take a towel and string it like a whip, and beat on the sink until all her strength left. She considers doing that now but there are no towels in the bathroom, except the one for wiping their hands. 

The desire leaves her as the knock, soft and tentative, comes through the door. "Agnes?" comes his voice.

Guilt. She hears it thick and heavy. And worry, that too. She just stands there and finishes calming her breathing. Then she sits down on the tub ledge, again, and buries her face in her hands, again.

She hears the bathroom door open. She briefly jerks in surprise, sure that he wouldn't come in unless she told him to, that he'd be too afraid to march directly into the dragon's den, that he'd let her cry it out and then pick up the pieces later. She's the one in the wrong, clearly, even in her own head, and she figured he would wait her out. But she's either underestimated or overestimated him. 

"Aggie," he murmurs softly, kneeling down in front of her. He pulls her hands away from her face, even though she fights him briefly. She turns her face and by extension her whole body away, but Tom won't be dissuaded. He grabs the hand-towel and dries her face, her nose, even though she's not done crying, more tears replace those wiped away. "Aggie, please, please don't cry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. That was the last thing I wanted to do."

She shakes her head. She wants to tell him to just let it go, just let her cry it out and she'll be fine, she doesn't know what's gotten into her, she knows she's not being sensible. But something throbs inside of her, radiating pain, and the words won't come.

//Where is this coming from?// she desperately wonders. Things had been going so well. And then shame floods her, at her ridiculous, over-reactive behavior.

"Sweetheart, please," Tom begs, his hands bracing her on either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. His thumbs continue to push back the tears, undeterred by their number. "I love you, of course I want to make love to you, but...but...I'm scared."

The last two words come out on a breathy, dry hitch, leaving his mouth open as he exhales. They startle her, momentarily stilling her emotional whirlwind.

"Scared?" she echoes, her own voice wet.

He nods, face scrunched. "I don't...I don't understand it, but yes. I'm scared."

"Scared to make love to me?" she clarifies, grasping his wrists and pulling his hands away from her face. "I don't..."

Tom grasps her knees as her hands fall on top of his. 

"You know I've been working on this with Dr. MacGregor," he reminds her. He's suddenly all hands, then flying in various directions as he attempts to explain. "You remember, a month ago, the wreck I was when I came home. There are still things from that period in my life that I haven't entirely resolved. It didn't even hit me until recently how bad I actually was. And when I made myself stay celibate to prove myself to y0u, it wasn't easy to just...stop, you know. I honest to God don't know how I did it sometimes. But I think I knew if I gave in, we were done. I knew every time I was tempted that if you ever found out, every fear you had would become totally justified. I foolishly thought at first that my love for you would be powerful enough to dissuade me, but...there were times when...I didn't think I'd make it. I think one of the ways I was able to get past it was to treat it like a job. A discipline I had to endure for a part, partially fueled by devotion, to you. But...I also think, and this was the start of it, it caused me to begin to resent you a bit, resent that power you seemed to have over me." His hands return to her legs, kneading them as he continues. "And I never dealt with the issues that caused me to be that way. It's like a heavy drinker giving up alcohol and going through all the physical steps but never bothering to wonder if he was an alcoholic or whatever issues he had that make him want to drink. I'm not saying I was a sex addict, but..." he looks down, a faint whiff of shame coloring his cheeks, "it was pretty damn important, Agnes. I started to wish I'd never, ever...I mean, you can't physically crave with that kind of intensity something you've never had. You have no idea how relieved I was that first time, with us. And how much I recognized what you'd been trying to get me to see...I told you this, remember?"

She remembers their wedding night, after the first time, lying there, wondering at the change in her, wondering at the strange mixture of emptiness and fullness, feeling that horrible pull toward wanting the pleasure, an addict tasting heroin for the first time, already jonesing for the next fix, and feeling like a part of her was suddenly fused to him, in a way it never was before. She remembers him holding her and telling her that he wishes, he wishes desperately that he could have waited, that she could have been his first, that he regrets not giving her what she just gave him.

"I did everything wrong that night," she whispers.

"What?" He frowns.

"I...I let myself get so caught up in what we were doing that I didn't let myself give in to what we were really supposed to be doing," she says, wiping restlessly at the remainder of her tears. "And I let things get so built up in my head...I mean, you had to coax me out of the bathroom! I felt so sorry for you later, having to deal with me. Terrified virgin, not knowing what the hell she was doing, but you were so...so beautiful with me. Everything you did was so sweet and tender and gentle. I don't know how you kept so patient."

His hand grasps her chin, stilling her wagging movements. "It wasn't a question of being patient. It was about loving you and wanting to be with you."

"I know," she replies, more tears brimming. "I know that now. You had it right and I didn't. All my silly preaching and I choke at bat. I made you work too hard. It set the wrong tone for everything. It should never have been about me wanting to please you, or you wanting to please me. It should just have been about us being together, learning each other in a new way...and..."

"If I'd been like you, it would have been," Tom says, voice colored with guilt.

She shakes her head. "It wasn't just you, Tom. I didn't get it either. The Puritan attitude toward sex is just as bad as the hedonistic one. We should have talked about it. We were good at talking about things then. I let my anxiety get the best of me. And I let what I thought of myself physically become more important than how you saw me."

A long, choked silence follows. Finally, Tom says, "We both built things up too much. And I'm rather scared of doing that again. I know I want you with my heart but sometimes...sometimes I feel like I'm going to go out of my skin with how much my body wants you, sometimes I wish desperately I could shut it off like a switch."

"Wants me?" she whispers.

"God yes, Agnes," Tom says, as if insulted she doesn't already know.

She shrugs. "I just...you know it's hard for me, Tom. You're exposed to so many... women. Women who want to treat you like a conquest, or think you can do better than me. And you have to see so much beauty, it makes me feel--"

"Agnes, you of all people know the difference between lust and love," he says.

"I don't," she says with a choke. "Not...not all the time. And certainly not anymore than you do. And it bugs me that...that..."

She can't figure out how to say it. Not and not sound like an utter fool.

"Tell me, Aggie," he prompts gently. "Tell me what you're feeling."

She squirms. It hurts to admit it. "Sometimes I want to be looked at like that. Sometimes, I want...no...I know it's wrong. I know it's wrong but I still want to be..."

She can't. So Tom says it for her.

"You want me to look at you like I look at them."

She sighs. "It's absurd. It's beneath me."

"Yes," Tom says, very, very gently. "But not for the reasons you think. You deserve better than to be looked upon as a sexual object. You deserve more than to be used to satisfy someone's lust. You, my beautiful wife, deserve to be loved and honored and protected. I want to give all of that to you. I'm so tired of the other thing, Aggie, I'm tired of being offered dirt when I have a gourmet feast! I want to spend the rest of my life trying to give you what you deserve." He reaches his fingers under her jaw, cupping her there between his fingers and his thumb, delicately turning her face so that she has to look at him. She doesn't resist. "But even as weary as I am of that //other// thing, that doesn't mean, however, that it doesn't happen to me, much more often than you realize. And NOT," he stresses, giving her a little pinch on her hand, "with other women. But with YOU. Which is the very reason why I'm afraid."

A silence falls between them as they stare into each other's eyes for a moment, absorbing it, processing it. He lets his hand fall.

"I don't want to use you," Tom breathes. "I don't want to get so caught up with release that we forget what we're doing. Which is what it's been."

"Yes," she realizes. "But Tom...you just said it's me, not other women. It's me that makes you feel that way. If you were just out for your own satisfaction you wouldn't care who it was that made you feel it. Being in love with me, it becomes part of the deal. I mean, we need that drive, that arousal. It's part of it. It's not bad. It's only lust when we remove our emotions from it. Your emotions aren't removed. And pleasure isn't bad. It just can't be the end."

Tom nods. "I know, I've been reading the same book," he agrees. "But I don't know what's going to happen when...when we actually..."

"It's an act of faith," she says. "I'm taking it too. The best thing is, we have each other to help. We're not alone, Tom. This is as close as we get. We can't get all Puritan about it. I know, sexual pleasure is like a drug, but if we have faith, if we...if we pray..."

Tom twitches. "I read that part, too. That feels...weird. Praying before..."

She drapes her arm around his neck ,bringing her hand around to stroke his hair. "You and I have a sacramental marriage," she says, in that tone he recognizes, the one where she becomes the teacher. "And as a sacrament, we celebrate it. Sacraments are sources of sanctifying grace. Making love is how we celebrate it. We've both been poisoned by this culture that makes sex dirty and perverse, so the thought of sex being a means of sanctifying grace feels weird, I know. But praying before makes perfect sense. We pray before every sacrament, why not this one?"

"Feels...so strange," he says with a shake of his head. "But...I'm willing to try. If it will help...direct things properly."

Agnes' cheeks are mostly dry by now. She wipes off the last of the tears. "We don't have to tonight." She can't help but think she's ruined the mood, especially after..."I'm sorry for what I said before. That shot I took at you. That was just wrong."

Tom gives a little shrug. "It stung, but...you were angry. I forgave you the minute you said it."

"Still," she says with a shake of her head. "I can't do that. I can't go flying off the handle and throw a fit when I don't get what I want. And it was mean. What I said. I can't go attacking you, we should have had this conversation like the husband and wife we are, like two people in an intimate relationship. I should have just asked you up front why you didn't want to."

Tom straddles the edge of the bathtub so that Agnes is now between his knees. "But that's just it, Aggie, I feel like I never NOT want to. One of the reasons I'm scared of falling back into that trap is because...dammit, I want you all the time. The other day when you came in from your run and you were all sweaty, I wanted to shove you down on the couch and have my way with you." He wraps his arms around her, as she attempts to back away, blushing now for an entirely different reason. 

"I haven't told you enough," Tom continues, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Because you are so overpowering. And I sometimes can't figure out of it's you or if it's me just being oversexed. But more and more I'm pretty sure it's you."

She can barely look at him, but the delight flushes her face. 

"And I have to lock myself in my study whenever you take a shower. You remember the things we used to do in the bathroom? That was our nightly routine."

"Those are some of my favorite memories," she whispers. Those are the times she remembers feeling the most loved. How Tom cared for her, took care of her, took his time with her, and it felt so natural between them. She misses those times.

"Then we should go shopping for some super fluffy bathmats this weekend," Tom whispers in her ear. She giggles.

"No, no," she says, starting to relax. "You're right, we've waited this long, we can last another month."

Tom lets out a little grunt. "Tease," he whispers in her ear before grazing it with his teeth. Then he continues, his breath tickling her and penetrating her at the same time, "No, we shouldn't wait. Our heads are in the right place, right now. I think this is it, Agnes. It feels right. It feels good."

She nods. "It does." 

He lets go, and stands. Then he offers her his hand. She takes it, and he leads her to their bed.

\----------------------------

The last time they made love, at least the last time Agnes can remember, was the morning after that awful trip to New York, when Clare had humiliated her. That night Tom had recited poetry to her to comfort her, and that morning they had been together in a way they hadn't for a long time. 

But she remembers Tom, looking down on her, eyes burning, a mixture of passion and anguish, and his words to her in that private, intense moment...

"Do you still love me, Agnes? Do you?"

The sheer vulnerability of that question had penetrated her more deeply than anything physical happening to her in that moment. She pulled him closer, kissing him, breathing into him, promising him that she did, he had no idea how much she did, and that she always would. 

Even through everything, that much hasn't changed. She was a fool to think she could leave. 

Agnes shifts under the sheet, realizing she's not as young as she used to be. They'd gotten carried away, most definitely, but the connection had been so strong and wouldn't taper off long enough for sleep to really grab hold. It's going to be hard to get out of bed today, and it's Monday. While Tom still tries to get up early enough for a brief run before heading into filming, doing all the things a director needs to do, she is able to stall for a bit and come in a few hours later. 

She might have to "call in sick" this morning and forego it entirely.

Agnes is suddenly very much aware of the fact that her lips are dreadfully chapped. She's also extremely dehydrated, but the ache throughout her body won't even allow her to consider getting up for some water. 

She lets out a little giggle at a brief memory from the previous night -- Tom running into the kitchen, and cursing the fact that they were out of Gatorade. He was always more prepared for things like that. He had an entire drawer on his side of the bed for bits and sundries that made the whole experience a bit more sanitary.

But last night, they had both lost their heads a bit. Other than the brief break for water, and a few naps in between, they'd pretty much tossed out any sense they had left. 

And now Agnes was paying for it. 

She knows she keeps some lip balm in her little drawer on her side of the bed. She's always on Tom for keeping his lips hydrated, he's forever licking and rubbing them as a nervous habit. Slowly, half because she feels like she's made of lead, and half because she doesn't want to wake Tom, she starts to inch her way toward the drawer.

Tom shifts beside her, and rolls. His arm goes around the small of her back, heavy in his sleep. She wouldn't mind if he didn't curl it back and try to wrap it around her, drawing her closer. But he's still asleep so she continues to move--

And then the arm tightens.

Agnes grumbles, but she also smiles. The more she moves toward the drawer the more Tom fights her. The man is like quicksand at this point -- the only way out is to break the suction.

Finally gathering enough momentum, Agnes heaves herself up a bit and grabs at the drawer. Tom starts to mutter, but all she can make out is the first syllable of her name. She gets the little tube and then falls back -- only to find that Tom has gotten his other arm involved and has closed the loop. As she starts to turn toward him with her return, he pulls her all the way in and brings her tight against his chest. 

For a moment Agnes just lies there as Tom readjusts his limbs and settles back down. She has her face pressed against his neck and shoulder, her hair covering Tom's face. She can't help it -- she starts to giggle. The vibration jiggles the bed and Tom lifts up his hair-covered face.

"Something funny?" he manages, and Agnes turns her head, taking her hair with her. 

"Certainly not the same thing that was funny the last time we were in this position," Agnes manages. 

Tom shifts under her but doesn't let go. "Well, the day is still..." He squints, lifts his head. "What time is it?"

"Five a.m.," Agnes says, seeing the bright red letters on her alarm clock. 

Tom grunts, his head falls back into the pillows. "Think I could get away with calling in this morning?"

"Tom, you're the director. Nobody works if you don't."

He grunts again. "Damn," he mutters, then rolls over, gently depositing her back on the mattress. 

"It's fine," she says, running her hand along his clavicle. "I don't think I'm up for another round of -- holy shit!"

Her voice isn't that elevated, it comes out more like a gasp. With Tom's shift, the purple-red mark at the junction of ear, neck, and jaw comes into view. But he lifts up his head at Agnes' exclamation, eyes wide with surprise.

"What?" he asks.

Her hand goes to the mark. "I didn't realize," she says, flustered. 

Tom's fingers cover hers, and a smile spreads across his face. "Well, it is your favorite spot."

"At least all the boys will know you got laid," she says ruefully, remembering the lip balm in her hand, and going to open it. 

"Hey now," Tom says with a touch of a scowl. "None of that, thank you very much--"

"What? It's just lip balm."

"Not that, you potty mouth -- 'getting laid,'" he scoffs. 

"That's what they're going to say," Agnes says as she spreads the balm over her chapped lips, and then reaches over to do the same to Tom. He presses his lips into a line for her, used to this routine, then rubs them together. 

"I don't care what they say," he says when she's done. "It's nobody's business but ours. Gentleman don't kiss and tell."

Agnes just snorts. Tom reaches under the sheet and gives her bare bottom a slap, a disapproving scowl on his face. But she can't take him seriously. So she leans over and kisses him. 

"Sorry," she whispers.

Tom replies with more kisses. But Agnes knows she can't encourage this. Still raw and achy, she pulls back. "I'm not as young as I used to be," she quips as rolls away, her arm over her eyes.

"Neither of us are," Tom replies.

"No, you are a man in his early forties, still in his prime," Agnes says from under her arm. "Me, I'm pushing fifty."

"You're forty-seven!"

"Three steps from fifty. Hence, the pushing." She heaves a sigh. "Face it, darling, you're married to an old woman."

Tom slides her arm away from her face and leans over her, staring into her eyes. He starts to leave little kisses around her face, moving in a slow circle. "You are the youngest, sexiest old woman I've ever known."

She snort-giggles and pokes him in the ribs. "I tried to warn you, you know," she mocks him. "You said, it's only five years, not that big of a difference!"

"Four years and eleven months," Tom corrects her. 

"Whatever," she replies, and gives him a little push as she makes a determined move to get out of bed. "I need a shower. Badly."

She manages to get to the bathroom door when she has to turn and look at him, as he's fallen strangely silent.

The look on his face...it's the last thing she sees before he's chasing after her.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom gets to read Agnes' novel. And he reacts.

"I have good news and I have bad news," Tom says.

It's been two weeks since the two of them starting sharing the same bed on a nightly basis. Tom has moved all his stuff out of the guest bedroom and back into the master bedroom -- although until two days ago he'd been extremely busy and coming home very late, so that filming could get done on time. Agnes has finished up work on the website and it is up and running, with clips of the documentary going out weekly. It's getting a good number of hits and the comments left are all very positive. 

One thing about making love on a regular basis -- it has a tendency to make spouses less critical of each other. This is generally a good side affect, until the honeymoon ends and a couple becomes less physically affectionate.

Tom and Agnes have already been through that. They don't intend to go back. 

Agnes has been trying to finish up her novel, but the question mark hanging over her head about what Tom's reaction to it might be stalls her. She has re-read the damn thing so many times she's sick of looking at it. She's pretty confident that she hasn't put too much into it that could be read as too personal, but she doesn't know what his perspective is going to be, not entirely, and it makes her nervous.

She's currently sitting in her study, bent over her lap top. They'd wrapped filming two days ago, and Tom has been home, trying to recover. He's also been slipping her food and keeping her glass full throughout the day, knowing her writer's mode and how she forgets simple things like that. He's currently brought the entire tea set along with the usual snacks and set it down on her desk so they can take a break together.

"You know I always want the bad news first," she says, closing the laptop and leaning back in her chair, stretching her neck.

Tom comes around the desk and his fingers start to work the knots in her muscles. Agnes relaxes into him, but keeps her eyes and ears open. 

"Well, we've hit a snag with editing. The studio we were going to use can't take us until the first of August."

"A month away," Agnes muses. "That isn't too bad."

"Well, it does interfere with a few other plans," Tom says. "Our renewal ceremony is in two weeks and then I wanted a good month for us to take that tour of Italy I was planning." Agnes smiles up at him. Tom knew how much she loved anything on the Mediterranean, and Tom arranged it so that they would hop around to the major cities -- Rome, Venice, and a few other stops. A few day cruise on the sea itself would bring their second honeymoon to a close, and then it would be off to Los Angeles.

"So what's the good news?"

"Well, the good news is that I was able to push the editing job back an extra week. And I called the rectory and we can move the ceremony to next week. So we can still go on our trip. But..."

Agnes stares at him. He's getting bashful, which means he wants to ask her something but he's unsure how she'll react.

"I was thinking that maybe, before the ceremony...maybe you'd be willing to let me read your novel now. I have the time, I'll be home."

Agnes stops breathing. The first excuse she finds is, "I'm not quite done."

"How close are you?"

"A few more chapters. I have to wind up a few things."

"Well, I would like to start." He hesitates, then comes around, pulls his chair from the other side of the desk to sit in front of her. He takes her hands in his and draws a very heavy breath. "It isn't that anything is conditional, Agnes, it's just that...I think both of us would feel better if we got it out of the way before the ceremony."

He's right, she thinks. Even if their souls and bodies have already been reminded of their vows, this ceremony feels like some kind of landmark in their relationship. And she doesn't want this hanging over it.

"All right," she agrees. "You want me to print it or send it to your tablet?"

"Print might be best," Tom says. He lifts her hands to his lips, kisses one, then the other. "Agnes, please try not to worry too much. I know you started writing it to deal with what was happening. I do understand, and I am prepared. You always put yourself in all of your work, this is just going to be a lot clearer than most."

Agnes shakes her head. "It isn't that I don't want you to read it, it's just...well, it's almost like a diary, you know? A fictional diary, but one nonetheless. I mean, you know it's not our real lives, but there are parallels and I don't want to rip open all these wounds we're trying to let close. And then after that, I don't know how you'll feel about it getting published. People are going to read it and speculate, you know. I...I feel kind of stupid now, having invested so much energy into it, and not even considering...I mean, I may not even publish it."

Tom gives a little jerk of surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't have to publish everything I write. You know I always write for me, everyone else is incidental. It's not like we're hurting for money, and I can always get back to the other project, I put it on hold indefinitely and I need to get it done--"

He's shaking his head. "Agnes, you're not...look, let me read it first before jumping to conclusions," he says. "Okay?"

Agnes reaches for the keyboard and sends the document to the printer. "Yeah," she says. "Okay."

\---------------------

Both of them are quick readers, if they're invested enough in the story. It takes him the week, but he does read it. Every word she has printed.

He doesn't talk about it as he reads it. Whenever Agnes asks, he tells her he wants to get as much of the story as he can and process it before asking her questions. But she knows. She knows what he's going to notice.

Natalie and Henry.

Agnes had struggled with herself over their story. She'd made Henry much worse than Tom. Tom hadn't flaunted his promiscuity in her face like Henry does to Natalie, although Henry isn't trying to be quite so deliberate, he's just so debauched that he doesn't know the difference anymore. But it's quite obvious that Natalie, in spite of her feelings, is not going to end up with him. She's going to realize that some things are more important. In a very real way, her story is much more parallel to the fantasy novel than any of the other plots. 

When he finishes, it's mid-evening on a Saturday, their regular weekly appointment with Dr. Summers having been cancelled because the good doctor had a personal conflict she couldn't put off. They're supposed to go Monday, and their ceremony has been set for Tuesday. 

Tom sits on the bed, back against a mountain of pillows, the second of two thick bundles in his hands, as the whole manuscript was too bulky for him to carry around as it was, so it's been broken down and put together like two fat scripts. When he finishes the last part -- Agnes got the last few chapters done during the week and slipped them into the second part -- he sets it down and leans forward, his legs folding up cris-cross in front of him, his elbows on his knees, hands under his chin prayer-like.

Agnes comes into the room, not realizing Tom is done, putting away more laundry she just finished. It hasn't quite hit her yet, that she's finished the book. Usually when she finishes a book she feels a profound sense of sadness, and the three or so times that has happened since her marriage to Tom, she's crawled onto his lap and let him hold her, comfort her, and he's never turned her away, in spite of wherever they were in the state of their relationship. The last time it had happened had been just before the incident with the portrait. Before Clare. Before all of it.

But the tension she feels, reading his face as he absorbs this story born of her pain and fear, prevents her from feeling that sense of loss. She knows it's coming, just delayed by the stress, and hopes he will understand.

Finally, he raises his eyes to look at her. He gives her a tiny little smile. "Hi," he says.

"Hi," she replies, setting down the basket on the floor at the foot of the bed. She sits down, watching him, but Tom pats the space beside him, and she crawls up, making herself comfortable on the mound of pillows.

"I put a bunch of notes about things I wanted to say," Tom says, his hand going to the second of the two bundles, fingers idly flipping against the green and yellow post-its. "But there was one big thing I wanted to talk about first."

Agnes nods. She knows but it feels like her stomach is dropping anyway. 

"You decided for Natalie and Henry to go their separate ways." He seems surprisingly unpained by this decision, if the expression in his eyes is any indication. Or he could be holding back, testing her. 

She draws a breath. "I didn't want to," she replies. "I just...felt it was best for the characters."

"You knew I was going to see it. That's why you were worried," he says.

She nods. "I told you I re-wrote history. I used enough truth and mixed it with fiction and...well. But the way they were, they wouldn't have worked. Natalie realized it, if Henry didn't."

Tom's eyes drift away from her and he stares into space for several moments. He seems to be meditating, or else daydreaming, lost in thought. 

"When did you make that decision?" he asks, eyes still unfocused, distant.

"I felt it from the beginning."

Tom nods. He looks down at his hands, and his face twitches, the muscles seeming to have minds of their own. "Agnes," he says, very carefully, "of all the things in this last year, all of them, there has only ever been one thing that has been unacceptable to me. And please, understand me," he says, his eyes rising up, and the blue in them is pale and bright, piercing, but the emotion is difficult to discern, as he doesn't seem particularly angry, just very firm, "that I know, I KNOW that this is my doing. Whatever else you've been through, whatever self-discovery you've made of your mistakes, of the things we've both done wrong in our marriage, that the one thing that I cannot escape from is the fact that //I// was unfaithful to //you.// No matter what we've said in all our sessions, no matter what we've thrown at each other, please, please understand," and he takes her hand, squeezing it lightly, "that I've come to understand that it was never your fault that I strayed from you. Whatever other fingers we've pointed at each other, that one is mine, and mine alone. But there is one thing that has consistently driven me mad -- and that's the thought that you regret marrying me."

He deflates a bit at the end of the confession. 

"Even now," he goes on, eyes dropping to their joined hands, "even now I worry that you still hold that regret. That you look back and think, we shouldn't have. You should never have given in to me. Even now that things are recovering, and that we have the potential to be happier than we've ever been, that you came back because of some sense of duty. Not because you chose me over being alone."

Agnes opens her mouth to correct him, but he stops her with a slight shake of his head and a brief closing of his eyes. 

"I ask this now because of what I see in this story. Not because I'm thinking you're using this as some kind of wish fulfillment, although," a slight nod, "that does occur to me. But...it does remind me that all of those things that we love about each other are the very things poisoning us. So I need to you tell me, and I realize how selfish it sounds, I feel like I don't have any right--"

"I came back for us," Agnes declares.

Tom looks back up at her, expectantly.

"I didn't come back for you, or for me. At least not for those reasons alone," she says. "I came back for us. Because you and I are more together than we are apart. And even though these last years..." 

And then something hits her. Hits her so hard for a moment she can't talk.

Something Malcolm was trying to get her to see, and stop doing.

The negative filter.

"Tom," she starts again, and he frowns a bit at her switch of tone, "I think I've just...realized something."

"What?"

"We keep talking about these last years like they've been horrible. And I think we've been...filtering it negatively, through this single event. This one event that yes, you take responsibility for. We've been looking at our seven years together through this single filter of one very bad event, and picking apart all the things that led up to it, but...but it's not all been bad. Somehow we've gotten so caught up in worrying how badly we've messed up that we've forgotten the good things. I've forgotten, on the morning after our first night together, how ridiculously happy I was, knowing I had you all to myself, just me and you and nobody else, I had all your attention for the next three weeks, and I was just so happy to be with you. I loved being with you so much. And I still do. And whenever something bad would happen, somehow I would filter it all through that negative feeling, that negative event, and everything would get colored...and that's why I would always fall back to that regret. That I shouldn't have married you. That I regretted giving myself to you. Because I don't. I don't, Tom."

She reaches over, loops her arms around his shoulders, and although the way they are sitting on the bed doesn't allow them to press together, their faces are very close and she can see that Tom is actually very calm. There is a storm in his eyes but he's working through it. 

"Whatever doubts or fears I had about anything...I made the choice for us for a reason. I love you. I choose you. Bring that what hell it may, I wanted you as much as you wanted me. And maybe this is why...so that we could have this, now. That you and I could both grow into what we were supposed to be. That THIS is what was meant to be, that God could take our pain and our stubbornness and our sin and use it to make us into something else entirely. Yes, it's been an unsteady path because of whatever reasons, but they don't matter anymore. Without them, we wouldn't have this, now, and what we could still have. But," and she draws a heavy breath, "at the time, I had to be faithful to Natalie and she...she had to live the path I didn't take. Are you angry at me for that?"

Tom shakes his head. He reaches up, gently pulls her arms from around him and grasps her hands, pressing them down on the bed between them.

"I have something to tell you," he says, looking up into her eyes again, and suddenly Agnes can taste fear in her mouth.

"Henry sleeps with one of Natalie's friends," Tom says. "That's the ultimate reason Natalie can't be with him, right? Because of his promiscuity. She can't overcome that."

"Henry is too damaged by his own...modern attitude," she says. "And Natalie won't...she can't accept him as he is. She knows he'll do her more harm than good." Her stomach twists and turns. "That isn't how I feel about you."

"You felt that way about me then," Tom corrects her.

"You wouldn't give up. Henry does," Agnes corrects him.

"No, I wouldn't." Normally he would have smiled at that comment, she realizes, but he's not smiling. 

"What do you need to tell me, Tom?" Agnes whispers.

Tom is silent for several long moments, but then finally nods, as if to himself. "On my birthday that year. A few days before, I think. It was months after I first asked you out and our drunken kiss on that New Years. You'd been avoiding me and I was...I thought that was it. I thought I needed to just forget it and get over it. You remember Melody, right?"

Another actress. A regular at Angie's parties. Agnes had always liked her because she was light and cheerful and seemed to go out of her way to make other people feel good about themselves. But she was also a bit too free with other parts of herself.

"We ran into each other at a nightclub, a few nights before my birthday. We...we had a one-night stand."

Agnes' fingers clench. But, she reminds herself, after the initial shock passes, she has to take this in perspective.

"We weren't together," Agnes says.

"I know," Tom says.

"I was trying to run you off," she says.

Tom just nods.

"You didn't cheat on me," she reassures him. 

"But for Natalie, that is the nail in the coffin," Tom insists. "Did you know? About Melody?"

 

Agnes shakes her head. 

"And if you'd known?"

"But I didn't know, and it no longer matters that you slept with Melody," Agnes says. "You gave all that up, Tom. You decided to be different, you let grace into your life and you aren't that man anymore. If you want me to forgive you, I forgive you. But what you did wasn't against me. It was against yourself, and against Melody. That's where the harm was being done, and that's what I'm trying to show with Henry, and why Natalie keeps pushing him away, because he can't stop hurting himself and she knows he...he can't love her the way she should be loved, he doesn't know how, and she has to protect herself, because he really is only going to hurt her, he doesn't see, like you did, how he could be different. But you learned how, Tom. You decided to make a choice, and make a change. That's why they aren't us."

"When I saw what you wrote, that incident, I wanted to tell you when I read it, but I was afraid. I've kept so much from you. I've never been honest about my shortcomings, I've never admitted to the things I've done wrong, I've never been straight up with you about the things I've done. And all I could think, while I was reading this, is that if you'd known, you would never have given me another chance and..."

Suddenly he is gasping out a sob. There are hardly any tears but the emotion has built in his chest and has to come out. 

"Tom, I wasn't naive. I knew your reputation," Agnes assures him, although she feels weary. "I never thought you were celibate, not for a minute. Not until that summer when you said you were going to prove yourself to me."

"From then I was," Tom says, still gasping a bit. "After that, I swear, I didn't touch anyone, hard as hell as it was--"

"Then calm down," she soothes him, stroking his hair. She struggles to process what is happening, her brain is suddenly too tired -- is Tom afraid that if she knew about Melody, she would have done what Natalie did? That the only reason she's with him is because she didn't know?

He shakes his head, the tears starting to drip. "Tell me we aren't built on a lie, Agnes," he sobs. 

"We aren't," she insists. "And I don't know if I would or wouldn't have given you that chance, we can't play guessing games like that, and things don't happen randomly, it was God's grace that kept it from me, for His reasons, and like I said, I knew who you were, Tom, I wasn't blind."

He presses one hand over his left eye. She can see the vein throbbing in his temple with the stress. "I wish I'd told you but now...now I just don't..."

"I'm not going to publish it," she blurts. It doesn't occur to her until later that it was the wrong thing to say, in the wrong moment, but she feels like everything is seconds away from being undone and she won't allow that. 

Tom stops, looks up at her with both eyes, wide and shocked. 

"What?"

"I'm not publishing it. It's a story, Tom. It's a story to help me deal with a nasty time in my life. But it isn't worth this. I'm not going to start having //you// doubt our whole history because of a //story,//" she declares, "not just when I've finally stopped doubting it myself!"

"You're publishing it," Tom insists. "It's probably the most fucking brilliant thing you've ever written. You can't not publish it, Agnes."

She's shaking her head. "I'm going to delete it. I won't have you thinking we're built on a lie." And suddenly she understands. She understands it so clearly that her chest feels like it's going to cave in with how much its constricting, understands what she's been doing to him all this time. But she's done with blame, done with blaming him or blaming herself.

It doesn't matter.

They have each other now. 

Things are clear now.

All the rest was just prologue. 

"No, you're not changing one word," Tom says, grasping her upper arms. "Agnes, I know you've always struggled with yourself, with your self-doubt, but all those things just give you a power to illustrate your stories so profoundly, that give them the feeling that makes them what they are, that makes them //art.// I won't let you make that sacrifice."

She sighs, struggling to calm herself. "I'm going to wait, then," she says. "Wait for this to pass. In a month, six months, if you feel the same, then...then I'll turn in the rough draft. We haven't sold it yet anyway, it's easy to put it on hold."

They stare at each other. Then, Tom nods. "Okay," he whispers. "But I'm not going to change my mind."

"Yeah, I know," she replies.

To both their surprise, they're suddenly smiling at each other.

"I love you, Tom," Agnes says, possibly with more feeling than she has yet. 

He nods. "I love you. And there is one more thing I have to ask you. I know you tried to derail me earlier but I'm going to ask you anyway."

She waits.

"If you knew then what you know now, would you still do all this again?"

Agnes' breath leaves her lungs in a whoosh. It's a question she can't answer. 

"Would you?" she returns instinctively.

"Yes," he says without hesitation.

"Even being unfaithful?" she says warily.

"No, of course not that, but...being with you, yes."

"But without that, Tom, would we be where we are now?"

Tom considers. "I see your point," he concedes.

"Exactly. That's like asking a person who had a child from an affair that broke their heart, if they'd go back in time and not do it the very thing that created the child. They regret the sin and pain but not the results. You can't ask a person to choose." She clasps her hands on either side of his face. "I regret the things I did wrong. But I would never regret, or change, you."

Relief floods his eyes. He gives a little nod. "That's what I wanted to know."

"I love you, Tom," she says, pulling his face closer to hers. "Let me show you."

Tom moves forward, pressing her back against the pillows, but Agnes gives a little push.

"No," she whispers against his lips. "Let me. Please."

So they switch. And this time, she is not rough or dominating, as she has been in the past when he's submitted to her. She gives him absolutely everything, with the utmost gentleness. And for the first time, Tom feels as if he's finally completely alone with her.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Agnes' renewal ceremony, a second honeymoon, and a giant fuck-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really long -- probably was two short chapters I combined. Which means now I only have a week to write chapter 37. I have it plotted out but the execution is just not happening. Maybe on Labor day. I did try to update earlier today but AO3 was not working. In the meanwhile, enjoy!

The two of them grasps hands in front of the priest. It's a small ceremony, Mass has been said, and they walked together down the aisle, her arm linked through his. 

"I, Tom, take thee, Agnes, to be my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

"I, Agnes, take thee, Tom, to be my lawful husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

Tom gently takes Agnes' face in his hands as she comes closer to him for the kiss. 

Tom's mother is there. It was too much trouble for Agnes' parents, who are a bit paranoid about traveling overseas, but Angela came, and Charles, a few of Tom's friends, and Natalie Summers. They all give a little clap when Tom and Agnes turn to process out of the chapel. 

She is dressed in a frilly white sundress with short sleeves, and Tom is in a vivid blue three-piece suit that Agnes asked him to wear. They both look ten years younger as they blush and smile at their friends and family. Diana hugs Agnes so hard, she is afraid the older woman is going to hurt herself, and Angela gives Tom a light punch in the arm while Charles pumps his hand, looking much more pleased on this day than he did on the first one over seven years ago. Dr. Summers kisses both of them on the cheek, and gives a slight embarrassed apology for her lack of professionalism, but declares she's rarely been so happy to see a couple reconciled and back on track.

The crowd goes out to dinner at a restaurant Tom picked out in advance, getting a private room in the back so they can laugh and talk and carry on without disturbing others or drawing attention. It's the most fun Angela can recall seeing Agnes have in a very long time, and she takes dozens of pictures with both Agnes' and Tom's cameras, having confiscated both of them at the beginning of the dinner, and tells Agnes later how amazed she is at the glow she sees in the couple. There is even a cake, a gift from Natalie, a miniaturized version of a wedding cake, and Tom and Agnes have fun stuffing cake in each other's faces.

Toward the end, Tom makes his little announcement, that he is converting, and this news is met with a bit of shock, mostly on behalf of his mother, but she recovers quickly, preferring to have a Catholic, happily married son as opposed to a miserable, heart-broken, Anglican one. Only Charles grins with a big of smugness, exchanging a look with Agnes, and Angela just shakes her head and laughs with joy. 

To Agnes' surprise, some of the guests have things to say. They get up, one by one, and give very brief speeches. Some are funny, some are touching, but the one Agnes remembers the clearest is when Charles' stands.

"This is from Paul Washer, who is a Protestant, but we'll let it go because truth comes from where it comes," he says, and then reads:

“How would you ever learn unconditional love if you were married to someone who met all the conditions? How would you ever learn mercy, patience, long-suffering, heartfelt compassion if you were married to someone who never failed you, who was never difficult with you, who never sinned against you, who was never slow to acknowledge their sin or ask for forgiveness? How would you ever learn grace to pour out your favor on someone who did not deserve it if you were married to someone who was always deserving of all good things? The main purpose of marriage is that, through your marriage, you become conformed to the image of Jesus Christ. Marriage, I believe, is the greatest instrument of sanctification.”

"Then why didn't you ever get married, Charles?" Tom teases.

Charles shrugs. "One doesn't need to perfect what's already perfect," he declares, earning him a groan from around the table, and Agnes chucks half a dried breadstick at him, and he laughs boisterously as he shies from it. "Actually, I can't take credit for that, that was one of the quotes Tom sent me, but I never used it because, well...."

Agnes looks at Tom. "You sent that to me?"

Tom shrugs. "I probably shouldn't have. It would have sounded like I was trying to goad you into coming back."

She grasps his hand, their fingers intertwining. "I'm glad I came back."

He smiles at her. "Well, that goes without saying now, doesn't it, love?" He leans forward and kisses her temple, but the revelers are pinging their spoons against their glasses, chanting "kiss, kiss, kiss," and Tom obediently ducks his head for her lips. 

It's not terribly late when they return home, after ten-thirty. But neither of them are lacking energy. Especially not when Agnes enters the house and sees why Tom shoved her out the door at ten o'clock that morning.

He said he'd booked her a morning appointment at a spa -- a special bath, a scrub and wrap, a massage, and then a manicure and pedicure, to be finished off with her hair and make-up done and her dress waiting for her to slip into it, before a limo showed up to take her to the church -- with Tom already ensconced in the back. But he'd been a gentleman, keeping his hands to himself in spite of the fact that she was incredibly soft-skinned from all the treatments. Although he'd not been able to stop running his fingers up and down her bare arms since the ceremony.

The bed is done up with rose petals strewn about, and the bathroom is especially clean and there are candles strewn everywhere, waiting to be lit. There are particularly fluffy bathmats and a bottle of bubble bath sitting on the edge of the tub, waiting to be used. 

"You certainly never go by halves, do you, Mr. Hiddleston?" she teases him.

"Not anymore, at least, Mrs. Hiddleston," he replies. "But there is one more thing."

There is a big box sitting at the foot of the bed. Tom lifts it up and removes the lid, and Agnes peers inside.

"Oh dear God," she gasps with a laugh and a shake of her head.

"What?" Tom says. He reaches in, pulls up a particularly beautiful bra and panty set, both in a deep royal blue and trimmed with white lace. "Once of the key things about being beautiful," he declares, "is feeling beautiful. And I'm sorry, darling, but your underwear drawer has been looking very shabby lately and I decided to take it upon myself to replace it. But if something doesn't fit right, don't worry, we can send it back."

She can't count how many sets there are -- over a dozen, she's sure. One for every day for the next two weeks. Tom knows her tastes, but has incorporated his own into his selection, and even a few things that she's sure are purely experimental. As long as nothing is animal print, she's sure she'll love it all.

"And I know you hate shopping for this stuff," he says. 

"Oh, I might have been convinced to take a trip to a specialty store, if it was like that one time, in New York."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Well, good thing I'm sure there are a few in Venice we can hit while we're there."

She reaches out, takes the set from him. "So are you saying you'd like me to change--?"

Tom takes the set back, drops it into the box and slides it out of the way before encircling her in his arms and pulling her flush against him. "I don't want you in anything right now, my love," he growls. "Except your birthday suit."

\------------------------------

"You two are completely bass-ackwards," Angela grumbles.

Tom pays the driver of the little black cab as Angela and Agnes get out of the back. 

"And you drank too much last night," Agnes grumbles back, teasing.

"You and Tom were anxious to leave, so I got left with Diana and Charles, who said it was too early to retire, and we wound up at a bar." Angie lowers her sunglasses a bit and gives Agnes a wink. "I never knew that mother-in-law of yours was such a party animal. I see where her son gets it from. And she kept up with Charles. That was a sight I'm sorry you missed."

Tom and the driver get Angela's stuff from the boot. She comes around and takes her bag, tips the driver, and the three head into Heathrow. 

"Most people," Angela continues as they walk inside, sunglasses and caps firmly in place to keep them from being recognized, "start out with the bliss. They have all the good times and then suddenly they hit a wall. You two stumbled around like idiots for seven years and now you're thicker than maple syrup. It's nauseating."

Agnes wraps her arms around Tom's midsection as he smirks down at her. "It wasn't all that bad," she says.

"Until it was bad," Tom agrees.

"Exactly," Angela cuts them off. "Look, I know you two are operating on less sleep than me, so you don't have to stay. I'll see you next month, right?"

Angela and Agnes embrace. Agnes grasps her so tightly that Angie gives a little "woof!" sound. 

"Thank you so much," Agnes says into her shoulder. "For everything."

"Oh, sweetie, you know I'd have strung this one up for you if you'd asked. Or had someone do it. I think Nicolas knows a few people."

Tom looks bashful, but he's still grinning. 

"I kind of like him still alive," Agnes says. "It's slower."

The two girls exchange wicked smiles and then eye Tom. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and then says he needs the loo. 

"I don't know quite how you're doing it," Angela sighs when he's gone. "I would have...I don't know. Your capacity to forgive is amazing."

Agnes shakes her head. "It's good right now. I don't know how long this will last but we're trying. We're stronger. Maybe one day we'll look back and realize we should be grateful for this challenge."

They look at each other.

"But I doubt it," Agnes finishes. They laugh again.

"And don't think he doesn't know it, too," Angela tells her. "He pulled me aside at the reception and apologized to me. Said he was sorry that he hurt you because it hurt everyone who cared about you. And thanked me for taking care of you when he couldn't, even though he knows I probably love you as much as he does."

They hug again. 

"Pray for me," Agnes says. "Some days it takes a lot; I've just want to sit and cry and feel sorry for myself and say horrible things to him. But then he does something, usually small, just to show me he's thinking about me. Like brings me a cold glass of ginger ale or puts a post it note with a heart on my laptop. And I just can't. I have to let it go. I just tell myself that each day it gets a little farther back."

Tom comes out of the men's room and slowly meanders his way back to them.

"Okay, you two, well, don't get arrested for public indecency in Rome, of all places. Especially not the Vatican. I think they excommunicate you for that." She kisses Tom's cheek and they hug. Then she and Agnes hug again. "I love you. I love you both."

"See you soon, Angie," Agnes says, and Angela waves goodbye and heads toward security. 

After she's gone and the two are in line for a taxi back to town, Tom says, "Should we start packing when we get home?"

"I was thinking," Agnes says. "You had all those other notes and things on the book. Do you want to go over them? I mean, if they're plot or character or stuff like that..."

"Yeah, they all are. It was only that one thing."

"That one little thing," Agnes teases.

Tom winks and presses his finger and thumb together to illustrate. Then he says, "Actually, I would love to do that, but I don't want to...I mean, isn't that like work for you?"

"I could say something adorably mushy about how talking with you never feels like work, but I think I hit my sap allowance for the next decade last night."

Tom wraps his arms around her from behind as he chuckles. "Then you'd better get some credit out, love, because we're going to be sickeningly romantic for at least the next month."

"Can't I just declare sap bankruptcy?"

"Nope." He kisses the back of her head and gives her backside a pat as a cab rolls up.

\-----------------------------

"This sucks," Agnes groans.

Next to her on the bed, Tom chuckles, but keeps it quiet. He isn't quite sure if she wants to be cheered up or if she just wants to be coddled, and Agnes can sense his hesitation.

This is what happens when you plan a month vacation, she thinks -- sometime during that month, the big red dot is going to arrive. They had enjoyed so much the first two weeks, traveling through Europe by train, running about Rome and Venice. The Italian paps had caught them a couple of times, glowing, laughing, and contented, fueling more confusion in the gossip mill that had expected the Hiddlestons to get divorced but instead are reconciled and appearing happier than ever. But today she could hardly pull her ass out of bed, the cramps were so fierce.

"I'm sorry," she says suddenly, feeling like a burden. 

"For what?" Tom says gently. "It isn't your fault."

"But I'm usually a trooper. I take some ibuprofen and get on with my life."

"Not all the time," Tom reminds her. "There are times you get really bad cramps. It'll pass. Just give the medicine a little bit of time."

"It's not the cramps," Agnes whines. "It's the...the...squishy feeling! Like I'm gushing and...icky! And I'm too old for this crap!"

"Darling, you keep saying that but it doesn't make it true," Tom says. 

"Wish I could just go menopausal and get it over with," she grunts as she gets up and goes to the bathroom -- again. 

Tom says nothing -- which is wise of him, Agnes realizes. There really is no arguing with her when she's like this. But the word "menopause" has suddenly inspired a new emotion within her.

Regret.

Regret that she hasn't had a child. Regret that she hasn't had TOM'S child. She wanted his child, desperately. She still does, but now...now it feels too late. And they've never used any kind of contraceptive, so it just must be a matter of God's will that they are barren. 

Before she'd felt a certain amount of relief that no child was involved during their separation and temporary break-up. But maybe if there had been a child, Tom might not have done the things he did. She might not have been so quick to leave. Maybe they would have both been more grown up, less quick to hurt each other if they'd thought of a third life being affected by their behavior.

No. No more what-ifs, she tells herself. That road is useless. But still, not having a child...she feels that sharp disappointment painfully, maybe more painfully than usual because of the extra hormones running through her. 

When she comes out, Tom has fluffed up the pillows, straightened the towel she'd laid on the bed just in case of leaks (no sense staining a hotel room bed, especially one as nice as this), and is getting some chocolate out from their mini-fridge and unwrapping it.

She looks at him, and feels an enormous wave of both affection and guilt wash over her. She feels like she's failed him, to some extent. To a very great extent. His dream was to grow old and play with his grandchildren, or at least he'd said, once upon a time. Of course, she knows his career is his great love, second only to her. He'll be like Sean Connery or Harrison Ford, acting until he can barely move. He'll be like Andy Griffith, doing little bits in movies until the day he dies.

"You okay?" he asks her. Apparently she's wearing her thoughts on her face.

She sighs. She could deny and say yes, she's fine, but he'd know. So instead she just goes to him and wraps herself around him, which he lets her do, and folds himself over her in return.

He doesn't say anything. He just holds her. For the longest time they just stand there, melded together, until her abdomen starts to tweak again. The spasm shoots down into her thighs, and she gives a little whimper.

"Back into the bed with you then," Tom says, then gives a little, wicked chuckle. "For entirely different reasons than the last time I said that."

She giggle-snorts but obeys. She crawls onto the bed where Tom has positioned a few pillows to elevate her legs, careful not to jostle the laptop sitting open, playing movies from their Netflix account to stay entertained while waylaid in the room by Agnes' ovaries. Tom sits beside her and massages her aching muscles, flittering from one place to another at her request -- more like command, but she's nice about it. 

"It has been such a great trip so far," she says as she munches the chocolate Tom feeds her. "I guess we should be grateful for the brief break."

"Which break, the one from walking all the time, or the other--"

She gives him a light punch in his arm. "Horn-dog," she accuses.

"I still say we could do it in the shower," Tom hums. "Keep from getting too messy."

"Give me a few days," she whispers at him, stuffing more chocolate. "When I don't feel like a faucet. And besides, it's more foreplay than anything, you know actual shower sex is a big myth anyway."

"In our little cubicle shower, maybe, but that one," he points, "has handlebars. Yes, they're for the elderly, but they do in a pinch. Like that time in Austin, remember?"

She blushes a little. "We talked about remodeling our bathroom," she muses.

"A bigger tub, one of those hexagonal showers, glass on three sides, set in the corner--"

"We'd have to take a bit of the guest room to make room."

Tom shrugs. "Why not?"

Agnes' eyes suddenly drift. "I kind of always thought that would be the baby's room," she whispers. And then, inexplicably, her eyes start to fill with tears.

"What?" Tom asks, puzzled beyond measure. "Where is this coming from?" When she won't look at him, he reaches up and cups her chin in the palm of his hand, turning her face to him. "Agnes, what is going on?"

"I've just been thinking...and I just really wish...we'd had a child..."

"Oh, darling," he says with feeling, voice soft, full of compassion. His fingers start to comb through her hair. 

She turns away, putting the chocolate on the nightstand before curling into a little ball, facing away from him. But Tom pursues, curving his body around hers.

"Agnes," he whispers in her ear, "Agnes, I know this has always been difficult for you..."

"I've been such a hypocrite," she says softly. "I mean, we could have adopted. There are so many foster children...but I wanted your child. Our flesh and blood. Our union."

"I know, darling. But it isn't your fault or mine. I know it's been hard but there are things we have to accept. I thought we had, but...maybe it's something we need to discuss with Dr. Summers?"

She shrugs with one shoulder. 

"Oh, Aggie." His lips caress her temple, her cheek, her ear. "I know we didn't have our own, but...there are still foster children out there. Some a little older, who've had a difficult life. We could give them so much, couldn't we? We'd give them love, security, raise them in the faith if they were so inclined...at least teach them about it. Maybe not right now, but maybe in the New Year we can start talking to some agencies about it. With our marriage more stable, I'm sure we could get enough testimonies from our friends. It wouldn't be impossible."

Agnes considers this. "Maybe a seven or eight year old?"

"Something around that. They might not think we have the energy to chase around a toddler."

She turns on her back, looking up at him. "Do you want to do that, or are you just trying to make me happy?"

He doesn't hesitate with his answer. "Both," he says. "They're not mutually exclusive, you know."

She reaches up, rubs her fingers along his stubbly cheek. "Yeah," she says. "Okay."

\--------------------------

The rest of the vacation, after Agnes recovers, is as fun as the first part. They've already acted like newlyweds, but there is a seasoning to them, a sureness of pain endured and overcome. 

They return to London only to turn around and head to L.A. Agnes has plenty to d0 -- she and Tom spent a lovely few days going over her novel and he, with his actor's eye for character details, spotted a few holes, questioned a few plot choices, and generally helped her analyze the whole set-up so that when she's ready to revise, she knows where to put her focus. 

The editor Richard has found is a lovely young woman named Brittany. She has dark curling hair that she always has up in a pony-tail, and she and Tom get along instantly. Agnes likes her for her enthusiasm and know-how, and enjoys many conversations with her when she brings them food at both lunch and sometimes dinner. Brittany and Agnes wind up comparing notes about editing, how to tag things together and keep everything in sequence that tells the story without being wasteful. Agnes realizes she has more luxury in this department, as Brittany has limited time and her movements from one scene to the other have to be much more economic. 

When not at the studio, Tom is with her. He doesn't always have to be there, he tells Agnes. Brittany knows what she's doing. He talks about her a lot, but Agnes knows, at least at first, that it's Tom being friendly, Tom being excited about his work, and that it doesn't mean anything. It's the first test of trust she's had to endure since their break-up, and Agnes tries to tell herself she can do this, she can resist being jealous, being suspicious of a work connection.

Still, freshly healed wounds can smart with too much contact. And in the third week, those wounds are throbbing.

Agnes didn't want the thought to occur to her, but that didn't stop it. She tries to blow it off, she tries to shake it away, but it persists.

It's ten o'clock, and Tom is officially an hour late. He'd said around nine. If he was going to be late, he would have called. And every call she makes to his phone goes straight to voice mail. She doesn't leave a message after the first one. 

She tries to reason through what it could be. His phone could have died. That's simple enough. It's happened to both of them, at one point or another. 

But that doesn't explain where he is.

She knows he's at the editing studio. He and Brittany have been burning the midnight oil, as the saying goes. Tom wants to finish this project and not exceed his budget. He has a week left and he feels the pressure, and he has clear ideas of what he wants to do, but still, it's the first time, and he's understandably unsure.

But the little demon whispers in her ear that Tom likes Brittany. She's sweet, friendly, intelligent, and they always have a lot to talk about. And this is how it happened with Clare. Tom coming home late, claiming his phone had died, not wanting to bother her if she was sleep, etc., etc. The incidents had added up until she'd finally confronted him.

She argues with the nasty little voice. She says that Tom is too busy with his film, and things between them have been so good. They've been coasting on cloud nine in spite of the fact he's overwhelmingly busy, he's always made some time for her, put them first no matter what other pressures have crept up on him.

But the voice persists. It could be. It's a possibility. Maybe. What if? What if it is? What if, over the last few weeks, this connection he has with his editor, with Britany, has been a bit more intense than he's letting on, and they talk and laugh, and then tonight it just went too far and neither one of them has the strength to pull back? What if he comes home smelling like another woman? What would that even smell like? He certainly never smelled strange when he was screwing around with Clare. But at that point they hadn't touched each other much, or at least not for very long. 

Agnes is angry at herself for thinking this. She paces the house they've rented in L.A. and argues with herself, sometimes out loud, that she is being paranoid. Tom wouldn't. He wouldn't, not after all they've been through. He's changed, he's not like that...but has he really changed? Do people ever change? The devil knows where the cracks are and always slips inside, and it's always at the worst time, just when you think you have things under control. 

Then she starts picturing it. Her imagination, her strongest tool, turns against her and shows her what it would look like. Tom fucking another woman. Tom leaving her for another woman. Tom begging the other woman, when she finds out that he's married, that she is the only one he cares about...

Agnes hurls the pillows from the bed across the room. It does no good -- she needs something that makes noise. So she grabs a towel and starts smacking the bathroom cabinets. It makes satisfying slamming noises and for a bit, she's able to push through the agony.

She has to stop. She's freaking out and she knows, she knows that she's wrong. Tom loves her. Tom is faithful to her. Tom has come to learn so much in this last year. He would not...he couldn't...

Except he did once.

And Agnes bursts into tears. 

She hates herself for thinking the worst of Tom. She feels like a naive fool if she doesn't at least consider the possibility. She is ripped down the middle and there is nothing but darkness in that crevice. 

Why doesn't she trust him? But she does trust him, she tells herself, scrabbling for new resolve. So she takes a very hot shower, turns off the lights everywhere except the front porch and one in the living room, so Tom won't stumble in the dark, and heads to bed.

Eleven thirty, and her phone rings. The number is not familiar and she has a mild heart attack, thinking it's the paramedics to tell her that Tom has been in a horrible accident, and she will hate herself for the rest of her life for thinking the worst of him during his last moments on Earth.

"Hello?"

"Agnes, it's me," Tom says, his voice panicked and high-pitched. "Thank God. I'm so, so sorry, Aggie, I'm so sorry -- my phone died and I just saw it just now. I'm using Brittany's phone, I made myself memorize the number after that awful incident two years ago in New York, you remember that?"

"So you're all right?" she asks, her voice rough and thick with the tears that have been leaking out of her eyes for the last hour straight.

Tom knows. She can feel the change in the air between them. He knows she's upset. Very upset.

"Yes, I am, and I'm so sorry, we were so caught up and we totally lost track of time, and I just now saw it...are...are you okay?"

"Just come home," she sighs. "Please."

"All right. I love you." The way he says it, as if he's asking for confirmation. 

"Love you too," is all she can manage.

What if it's true? What if he's slept with Brittany and that's why he was freaking out? What will she do? Will she leave? She's tried that once and it didn't work...but that time was because Tom was doing so much to make up for his mistake. He's not so brainless as to do it again. Unless he's been playing her this whole time. But why? To what end? What does he gain? No, it's ridiculous...but still. Still it needles her with its sharp little points. If he has slept with that woman she will leave him. She will move to Alaska and live on an island where the sun doesn't set half the year and become a hermit before she will go back to him again.

By the time the keys jingle in the door she has calmed herself down by wrapping herself in the bedsheet and praying a rosary. But still her face is tear-stained and Tom sees it the second he charges into the bedroom, flipping on the overhead light. 

He stays in the doorway for a long moment, looking at her, unsure.

"Agnes?" he says, testing her mood. He needs her to speak first, he needs to know where she is in her head, he needs it to know what tact to take. Agnes knows this, and draws a heavy breath.

"Yes, Tom," she replies, calm, steady.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice starting slow but picking up speed. "It was an accident, I didn't mean to make you worry. I couldn't believe it myself, we were just so caught up in it, we were close to finishing an important section and it was, just a few more minutes, just this one last thing, and before I knew it, it was...so late." He looks at the floor, his hands toying with something, and Agnes sees it's his dead phone. "I'm so sorry, it was horribly inconsiderate of me..."

"It wasn't intentional. I know how you get when you're focused on a project," Agnes says, shifting forward to rest her elbows on her knees, under the sheet. She wipes at her face, and suddenly feels guilty. 

"But you were worried I was..."

She flinches. Her face falls into her hands. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice tiny. Then she hates herself for feeling guilty. Tom betrayed her once, no matter how much he's done to repair things, that trust was broken once when she never thought it could happen. Then she's angry that she still feels like this, that their marriage is still crippled with this fear.

"No," Tom says, his voice a bit louder. He steps farther into the room and Agnes lifts her face from her hands to watch him. "You have no reason to apologize. Dr. MacGregor and I talked about something like this happening. He said it wouldn't be your fault, and that being angry at you is the last thing I should be, but that it might happen and that we'd have to work through it."

"Are you?" she asks, her voice still so small. "Angry at me?"

Tom shakes his head. He paces a bit at the foot of the bed. "I wish there was something I could say. I wish there were words that would reassure you. Some solid proof I could present. I want to say that I wouldn't do that, but past history is against me. I want to say that I've changed, but I feel like that old saying, the more I change, the more I stay the same." He sighs, tosses the phone down on the edge of the bed to rake both hands through his hair. "I'm...so frustrated, Agnes. If it were possible I'd let you read my mind, I'd bring you in to my deepest, most private self, if it would make you trust me again, but...but I also know it's unfair to put that on you, that I have to earn that trust." He stops, looks at her, anguished. Then, as if it's painful to ask, he says, "May I...may I hold you?"

She gives a slight start, surprised, and then nods.

He immediately goes to her, practically climbing feet first onto the bed and plopping down in front of her, one long leg on either side of her, and pulls her into his arms.

He smells like him. The clothes are the same as when he left the apartment. He doesn't appear rumpled, nothing about him comes across as someone who just had sex.

"I'm sorry," he says into her shoulder, through the sheet she has wrapped around herself. At first she is stiff, and this surprises even her, somehow she can't make her body yield to his embrace. But Tom is persistent. His hands soothe and massage her in all the right places and soon she is leaning heavily against him, curled between his spread legs on the bed. "You're my life. I wouldn't jeopardize us again for anything in the world. I love you. So much."

Finally, Agnes looks up at him. His eyes are bright -- jaw tense, strained. But most of all, he looks tremendously sad. Disappointed. 

"I do trust you," she whispers.

Tom just looks at her, patiently.

"I hate that I'm this upset. That my suspicions went..there. And I'm sorry for all the terrible things I was thinking."

Tom shakes his head. "You have no reason to apologize."

"But I do," Agnes says. "All this work we've done...things //are// different. And I don't believe you'd be so weak to give in to temptation..."

He suddenly gives a very small, dry chuckle. "But that's just it," Tom interrupts her. "There was no temptation, Agnes. I know you think that I'd sleep with Brittany because we get along well, because she seems like 'my type.' But I haven't thought about her like that even once. I know I've also failed in telling you my thoughts and feelings, keeping up my end of our communication, so I'm telling you now. There's nothing. I haven't given Brittany a single glance in that regard."

"You...you haven't?"

Tom shakes his head, his eyes glistening. A sad but hopeful smile starts to slip across his lips and his hands gently ghost over her hair, one on either side of her head, to frame her face between his wide, splayed fingers. "You are the only woman I see. The first time I said those vows, it was the thing I was expected to do, and maybe I understood them as much as I was capable at the time, but this time...you are mine, Agnes, and I'm yours. There is no other woman who turns my head, no one else on this earth who draws me the way you draw me. You are a precious and beautiful gift and there is no other. This thing between us is above and beyond carnality, I know that now."

She gives him a reluctant grin, and a little shake of her head. "You converts burn so bright. Combine that with how you're already so go gung-ho whenever something catches your passion--"

"I'm not just spewing words, Agnes," Tom says, his tone mildly stern. "Your spirit, my spirit, they're fused. How could I possibly think about something cheap and ugly when I have the most beautiful treasure here in my arms?"

She stares at him for a long minute. His words, she is tempted to dismiss as his typical flowery wooing when he gets in that space in his head. But she doesn't. She fights against it. Her face flushes with emotion: pleasure, confusion, passion, hurt, disbelief. Tears burn in the back of her eyes.

Finally she speaks, but her tone is gentle. "It's the same way any sinner does it. I've been doing this a bit longer than you, Tom. You might feel all resistant to the devil's charms right now but he doesn't give up that easy. Same with me. The temptation for you to look at another woman is the same temptation for me to //think// you're looking at another woman. I have to fight, too, every day. Especially when things like this happen." She looks away. "The night...you were with...Clare..." Her chest twinges as sobs start to rise. "You said your phone died. At the party. And suddenly I just went there, completely paranoid."

"Don't apologize," Tom chastises her even as he comforts her. "It's not like...it's not like you don't have a reason. I can't be stupid and careless like that. I have to remember that the trust between us is till mending. I can't expect you to treat it as no big deal when something happens that opens up those old wounds. I mean, even if we hadn't been through...what we have...any wife would be pissed at her husband coming home three and a half hours late with no phone call."

They both give a little chuckle.

"I will not let it happen again," Tom says. "I will start carrying a charger with me if I have to. And," he says, reaching up and pulling his shirt over his head, "here. Look at me. I'm clean as a vestal virgin."

"Tom, you don't have to--"

"No, I know how you think, Agnes, I know how those paranoid little voices get their claws into you. I want them all to shut up. Look at me. Nothing." He moves his head from side to side, exposing all of his neck. "And I'll call Brittany first thing in the morning and explain and we can meet for coffee and you'll see there's nothing on her either--"

"No!" Agnes says, turning crimson. "You can't drag her into this!"

Tom slides off the bed and proceeds to remove his pants. "I don't care, Agnes. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure you believe me."

"Tom, stop," Agnes sighs. They stare at each other for a long moment. "You know this is silly. You can't...you can't absolutely prove it to me. You could have cleaned up after, you could have told her not to...leave any marks. You could just have learned how to be very, very careful. It's not going to work. I have to...I have to take your word. I have to trust you. You didn't lie to me about Clare, when I asked. I know when you're hiding something. And I believe you. I am choosing to trust you."

He nods, and then crawls back into the bed with her, wrapping himself tightly around her. They turn off the lights.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter -- Angela's wedding.

While Tom was finishing editing his film, Agnes had things of her own to do, specifically involving being maid of honor in Angela's wedding. 

The wedding shower comes at the very beginning of September. It was mostly planned by the wedding planner she hired, a lovely young man named Ralph, who has everything organized for Agnes to just step in and do her duty. However, the bachelorette party is all Agnes' doing, and knowing Angela as she does, there will be no strippers, no sexually explicit party favors --

\--but there will be a hell of a lot of alcohol, and really, really good food.

The plan is to go to Vegas, as it's only a five hour drive, and stay for one night at one of the penthouse suites at the Bellagio. The gaggle of women will pig out at the extremely nice buffet, go dancing and drink (with security guards to keep them from being molested) until they head to the suite and party there for a few hours with hors d'oeuvres and sweets laid out for the guests. There were less than a dozen of Angela's friends invited, and none of them were big party animals, so Agnes didn't anticipate everything going crazy.

Before that, however, was the shower. It wasn't exclusively men or women -- it was done as a big luncheon with the typical shower games that actually resulted in some very cool prizes. 

Tom wore a light gray suit with a blue shirt underneath and the silver tie that Agnes loved. She stuck to autumnal colors to stay in the theme, a fluttery dress with a flouncy skirt, cream white with a pattern of gold, red, and orange leaves dancing across it. Her hair was up in one of the styles Angela wanted her to consider to go with her bridesmaid's dress. Tom's eyes lit up the moment she emerged from the bedroom, ready to go, and she couldn't help but give him a flirtatious wink.

"Do we have to go do this?" he asked, standing in the doorway, preventing them from leaving.

"Yes," Agnes says, still smiling but with reprimand in her voice. 

"All right, but only on one condition," he says, stepping up closer to her.

"And that is?"

Tom bends down and whispers the condition in her ear. The words make her flush scarlet.

"That should get me through the next few hours," he teases as he finally escorts her to the car. 

But Agnes knows he has a good time. Tom is a social creature by nature, and he is surrounded by friendly faces, and all their friends are extremely happy to see them together, although nobody has bad enough manners to actually ask, they can just see how Tom can't keep his gaze from his wife, no matter where she is in the room.

Agnes has to play Mistress of Ceremonies for a little while, but honestly public speaking never really bothered her much, and once the games are done, the prizes handed out, the gifts piled high on a table that runs along the back of the room, the food depleted and the bar closed, everyone starts to clear out.

Tom grabs her and places her on his lap at their table, which has been deserted. "So at this wedding," he says, "are you going to be placed at the table of honor, and poor me is going to have to suffer with the masses?"

"Well, I am part of the bridal party," she says, relaxing into him. She's been on her feet for a good part of the shower and it feels nice, being off them. She hooks her arm around Tom's neck to keep herself anchored on his lap. "But don't worry, you'll be at one of the front tables, close to me."

"Maid of honor," Tom murmurs. "But you're not a maid." His smile turns mischievous. "Hardly."

She pinches his ribs. "Shut up, you."

He giggles, squirms under her fingers, but doesn't relent. "Matron of honor, isn't that what they call them?"

"Matron?" Agnes echoes in mild horror. "I'm a matron now?" 

"It just means married woman," Tom says.

"It conjures an image of a gray-haired, haughty woman with her nose stuck in the air making everyone around her miserable with her crankiness and bossiness. Oh, great, it is me," she laughs.

Tom slides one hand down and gives her bum a squeeze. "It conjures an image of a beautiful, glowing woman who is full of love for her husband and his love for her," he says. "Who doesn't have to worry about the useless, superficial things of the world because she knows what real beauty is."

She rolls her eyes. "Flatterer."

Tom reaches up and plucks at the tendrils of curls that hang down around her neck, part of the hairstyle she sports. His fingers let the strands slide through between the tips, watching them straighten and then bounce back. Agnes giggles because as he does this, his knuckles brush along her neck, but Tom won't relent. Soon his fingers migrate to following the lines of her neck, her jaw, her cheek, the laugh lines around her mouth, the cupid's bow of her mouth, the tip of her nose, the curve of her ears, and in between each one he whispers something to her that either makes her blush, giggle, or smile, or sometimes all three. 

Angela has photographers roving around the party, capturing pictures of the guests in both candid and posed shots. The pictures come out later of Tom and Agnes smiling and totally lost in each other. Tom blows up his favorite and hangs it in the main room of the condo they eventually move into as their Los Angeles residence. Others that come in second place (it was a hard choice) are laid out in frames that holds multiple pictures and line the short staircase to their small second floor that holds their bedroom and their shared study.

When mid October rolls around, it's time to be off to Vegas. Tom grumbles at her leaving, especially because of her destination, but knows that even if some of the women from the party do go insane and decide to drag Angela off to see some strippers, Agnes will not follow. She'll probably keep Angela from going, and Angela will let her. 

The real conflict is that Tom is going to Nicolas' bachelor party, and he is pretty sure there are going to be some kind of exotic dancers, and he really doesn't have any taste for it. Agnes tells him that Nicolas, of all people, will understand, if he just tells him. If anything happens that makes him really uncomfortable, he just needs to grab a cab and go home. He could even call her, she says, and if he really needs her, he can fly out to her (there are always flights between L.A. and Vegas) or she can come home.

In the end, Tom does go home early, and Agnes falls asleep early after they all return to the suite, after they talk for a bit over their cellphones. A few girls decide to go out but Angela winds up crawling into bed a few hours after Agnes, exhausted. The following morning is spent at the Paris breakfast buffet, which features crepes and macarons, and while some suffer from hangovers, both Angela and Agnes were careful to hydrate and take aspirin before bed, and are bright eyed and bushy tailed. The entourage returns to Los Angeles and arrives home in the late afternoon. 

October passes with Tom and Richard going over all the ins and outs of entering their film in whatever festivals they can, making plans to follow it, particular to Cannes in May and then Toronto in September, to be considered for an Oscar for that year. The film is going to drop on the website right after Cannes, allowing fans to view it free for a few days. 

Agnes, for her part, is in the editing stage of her book, having sent it to her agent for a final read, and then to the editors for revision. As it turns out, there is a bit of a bidding war for the book -- the publicity stirred up over Tom and Agnes' marriage has created serious curiosity over what Agnes will write, and the fact that it's over broken relationships just exacerbates the rumors. There is a specific disclaimer at the beginning of the book that it is entirely a work of fiction and is not based on actual events, but it doesn't mean the publishing houses don't want it. The sell value of a novel written by a star's almost-ex-but-now-reconciled wife is apparently very high, especially considering the time period in which it was written. There is already talk of movie studios wanting to option the film rights. 

When the wedding comes, the first Saturday of November, Agnes and Tom are both riding high, on each other and also on the excitement of what the new year will bring. 

The day before, Angela gives her gift to her bridal party -- a full day at a spa. When she comes home, skin softened, scented and glowing, Agnes practically has to hold Tom at bay, knowing that if they get started she will be exhausted the next day and Angela's wedding is too important. Instead Tom manages to extract a few promises from her of after-wedding activities, and she manages to get a good night's sleep.

The following afternoon finds Agnes waiting until the very last minute to put on the dress before she leaves the house. Her hair was done that morning, her make-up is in place, and all that's left is putting on the black and red ensemble that is part of Angela's theme. It's not that she doesn't like the dress -- she loves it. But the skirt is like a ball gown and the condo is just not spacious enough for her to feel comfortable. So she relaxes in her robe before she has to twist Tom's arm into helping her get the dress on. 

She makes her way into the kitchen and finds him perusing the contents of the fridge. She stands for a moment, and takes him in. He's mostly ready to go, his shirt and tie in place, looking extremely handsome in a deep slate grey three-piece. Like her, he's waiting for the last minute to put on the waistcoat and jacket. 

Tom feels her gaze on him and turns, his eyes gaining a sparkle that wasn't there before when he looks at her. "What?" he whispers.

"Nothing," she says with a little smile that means far from nothing. 

"Well, you'd better stop with nothing or we're going to be very late." He selects a bottle of water and pops it open. "Although I did make sure we had Gatorade stocked."

She gives a little snort. "I need your help getting the dress on. Think you can control yourself long enough to do that?"

Tom shrugs one shoulder. "I'll try." He follows her to the bedroom where it's laid out. Agnes isn't sure if she should step into the thing or put it over her head, and Tom makes her step into it, helping her adjust it so the glittering band of crystals that accent the high waist settle into place. Thankfully the zipper is long, starting on her lower back into the red folds of the skirt, expertly hidden by matching flaps all the way into the glittering black bodice.

"You look like you could be going to the Oscars," Tom comments, observing her, a vision in black and red.

"Angela's tastes do run along that line. I don't know how the hell I'm going to sit down in this thing," she mutters, getting into the flat red shoes with the glittering black accents. She insisted on flat shoes, never having done well with walking in heels. 

Everything goes spectacularly. 

Angela is so radiant in her wedding gown it practically brings tears to Agnes' eyes as she's walking down the aisle. The two exchange a playful wink as Angela hands her the bouquet of perfect, deep red roses accented with black crystals before she goes to take Nicolas' hands to recite the vows.

As the bride and groom exchange words, Agnes' eye flit to the crowd. Tom sits in the third row on her side, and their eyes meet -- he's been staring at her pretty much the whole time, she's felt it. She gives him a smile and turns her attention back to the moment. 

After the ceremony, in the receiving line, an unexpected face appears, but of course he would be there, Angela had invited all her friends and she had many.

"Chris!" Agnes whisper-cries as he approaches her. Chris looks bashful in that boyish way of his, the look that makes millions of fangirls still swoon, that makes everyone thing he's the wholesome, good-natured boy next door -- and maybe that is part of who he is, but Angela knows better now.

"Congratulations," he says softly as he squeezes her hand. "I was glad to y0u two got back together."

"Have you seen Tom?" she asks him. 

"Yeah, we...we ran into each other before. We're still talking but he told me I should come say hello to you." The line is building up behind him. "I'll probably run into you at the reception," he says, stepping on. 

Agnes nods, and watches him go. After the receiving line, they have to go back into the church for the photos, which take longer than any other photoshoot that Agnes has ever had to endure, but probably not longer than the ones either Tom or Angela have. And there are more than a few of her, Tom, and the new couple. It's almost two hours by the time she and Tom are able to leave for the reception. 

"Did you see Chris?" Tom asks her, holding her hand as they ride in the hired car to the banquet hall.

"Did you two make up?" she asks him. 

Tom gives a little shrug. "I can't stay mad at him. I mean...I feel sorry for him, you know? He's still...stuck. Stuck in that mindset of jumping from woman to woman and you can't let any of them know how you feel. Maybe he had something with Diana...if I'd been a bit clearer-headed about that I probably would have been rooting for them. I feel bad that what happened messed them up. But the bottom line is, he's lonely. And when I look at him I see...how I could have turned out." He turns his gaze back to her, appreciation in his eyes. "I'm eternally grateful for it being otherwise."

As he feared, Tom was relegated to a guest table, but it was relatively close to the main bridal table, giving Agnes a clear view of his little smirks and quirks of his eyebrows during the evening's speeches. Once all the "matron of honor" stuff is out of the way -- such as her speech, and the cake bit between the bride and groom, and the throwing of the bouquet, and all the traditions that go with a wedding reception -- Agnes and Tom are able to kick up their heels and dance.

One thing Tom loves to do is dance.

Even full of a five course meal including some of the most delicious wedding cake she's ever eaten, Agnes manages to keep up with him in those moments when he isn't flailing, showing off the movies that helped make him a legend. The other guys join in, challenged by Tom's showing off, and he graciously concedes to Nicolas after the two have a bit of a dance-off, even though Agnes knows it's only because it's the man's wedding day that Tom gives his competitive nature a break. 

Of course there's also the slow dancing. Tom has to part with her more than he likes during those moments as she dances with the groom, Angela's brother, and a few of the wedding guests who are old friends from way back, and even Charles. But he always is there ready to take the handoff.

Finally, he pulls her over to his table, and pushes the sweaty strands that have escaped from her hairstyle from her damp forehead and temples. He places a gentle kiss on her cheek just below her left eye and whispers, "So when can we leave?" He looks extremely fetching, have long since shed the jacket and the tie, and having unbuttoned his shirt for at least the first two buttons, with the waistcoat still gleaming from its naturally shiny material and matching the glistening of his skin. Not to mention that he's rolled up his sleeves to show off those lovely forearms.

"Right after Angela does," Agnes says. 

"Which will be--?"

"In about fifteen minutes," she replies. "Angela told me."

It was well after eleven, not quite approaching the midnight hour, but definitely time for the newlyweds to begin the joys of the honeymoon. 

"How long did we stay at our wedding?" Tom asks.

"Midnight," she replies. "I kept stalling."

"You did?" he frowns.

She nods. "You were sweet about it, saying that a girl only gets to have that big party in her honor once. Or at least I was only going to get it once. May as well milk all we could from it."

"I don't think we got to dance quite like this," Tom says.

"No, I was pretty much passed from person to person like some kind of human bong...I think we were able to dance three or four times, tops. But you're making up for it," she teases.

He gives her a little indignant snort. "I made up for it a year after when we went to Jeremy's wedding." He arched an eyebrow. "Of course you sort of drank too much that night, probably why you forgot it."

"I remember it," she shoots back. "And I wasn't that drunk. I didn't black out and I didn't get sick and I didn't get hung over."

"I know, that still amazes me," Tom says with a shake of his head. "I know you drank water--"

"And having sex sobered me up," she reminds him.

"Aaaah," he says with a glint his eye. "So there it is."

They are interrupted by the commotion of the dismissal of the bride and groom. Angela and Agnes hug and kiss several times, and Angela promises to call as soon as they're back but Agnes knows what newly married life is like and doubts it'll be that soon. The truth is, she's proud of Angela. She determined to do the whole relationship/courtship/ engagement thing right and she and Nicolas have not been together yet. Angela's face is pretty much lit like a bonfire in anticipation. 

After they see the new couple off, she turns to Tom. "I really need the water closet," she says.

He smirks at her use of the old expression. "I'll start the farewell round," he says. "Mine always takes longer than yours."

"That's because I don't say goodbye to every last man and her cousin in the place!" But she's smiling as she heads to the ladies room. 

It's incredibly hard to go to the bathroom in public stall if you're wearing a full skirt that floofs out even without the help of hoops. The layers underneath bunch around her waist as she struggles to situate herself, and when she finally gets comfortable, she just has to sit for several long minutes, feeling how every muscle in her body is objecting to how she's treated it this evening. All she really wants at this moment is to get out of the stupid corset-- it's been digging into her sides for the last hour, starting to become a real discomfort. She's almost sure she's drawn attention to herself with how she's been fidgeting at it, trying to adjust the straps so they don't press into the sensitive spots.

A little bag dangles from her wrist. She didn't want to bring her purse, knowing how the evening would go, so she put her ID, cell phone and her lipstick in a little black wallet and has kept it with her pretty much the whole time. She wonders what calls she's missed during the party and starts to pull the phone out to check--

\---when she hears voices.

"---don't quite get it. I mean, doesn't she have any self respect?"

Agnes' ears perk up. She knows that voice. She knows most of the people here but not well, Angela had many people she had to invite to keep her family happy as well as her agent. She managed to keep it down below a few hundred but this one isn't quite clicking in Agnes' mind.

"Come on," a second woman quips, and it's obvious by the sound of her voice that she's putting on lipstick. "I mean, she knows she can't do any better than him. Most people can't do any better than him, but her in particular. She's not going to leave him, please." A snort and a click as lipstick is put away. 

"But still, he cheated on her. He put his dick in another woman's vagina. Seriously! How can she let him touch her? I didn't think she was so stupid to keep someone like that around!"

"Well, she isn't stupid," the other woman said. "She knows which side her bread is buttered on. Some people would rather keep the facade than face the ugly truth. Really ugly truth, in her case." She chuckles, but the other woman doesn't.

"I guess we should have seen it coming," the first woman laments. "I mean, it's not like he had a reputation for keeping it in his pants before she came along. I don't know what shock treatments he had to have for her to even get him to the altar, but somehow they worked, for a bit. Seems they've worn off, I guess."

Agnes lets out a slow breath. Her skin has been getting hotter and hotter for the last few minutes, her cheeks burning, then her neck and shoulders and arms and into her torso. It feels like her intestines are all aflame. She hasn't heard the magic words for her to know who these women are discussing but she knows. Her intuition and her paranoia both know.

"You sound like you're on her side," the second woman says. 

"I am on any woman's side who has a cheating whore for a husband," the first one snaps. "I'm just shocked -- I mean, it's Agnes, for crying out loud! Woman's got a moral code stricter than the Pope!"

"Well that's the problem, obviously, she's frigid. Think she's going to let go of the best sex of her life -- even if she's getting sloppy seconds?" Another nasty laugh. "Of course, you can see why Tom had to go elsewhere."

Somehow, some way, Agnes has managed to stand and straighten her undergarments. Maybe it was the use of her name. And without preamble, she slams open the door of her stall.

Both women turn at once to see her. One of them she recognizes as one of Angela's former co-stars, a friend often invited to her parties but one Agnes has only had a few conversations with over the years. The other is less familiar, but she has that bitch face that Agnes has easily come to identify in Hollywood. The face of a person who tears down everything else because the one thing she really hates is herself and she can't do anything about it. 

However, a sudden calm grips her. Both women are too stunned with the realization that the person they were talking about heard everything they said, and seem to freeze, as if testing to see if they're really awake. Agnes knows the feeling. She's done it herself. So it gives her time to approach the sink, wash her hands, and then leisurely re-apply her lipstick.

The first woman manages to find her voice. "Agnes, I'm so sorry."

Agnes shoots her a look. She isn't sure what she's more angry about, but the longer she stands there, the more defiant the other woman looks, and the worse Agnes' trembling gets. 

Finally, she just walks past them out the door. Leaving them wondering, knowing if she spoke a single word she was going to burst into furious tears, and possibly kill someone.

The worst thing is that they're wrong. They're horribly wrong but they smugly think they're right. Is she mad that they put her down? Of course her pride stings but one thing Agnes has always tried to do when someone insults her is ask her why the insult hurts. If it has no truth, it is discarded. If it contains truth, it is an opportunity for humility and self-reflection.

It is that they think she's only with Tom because she can't do any better in the looks department? Is that all they think of him? They have no idea of the struggle she's endured with her self respect, but they have even less of the journey that Tom has taken, how hard he's worked to prove and improve himself. The utter shallowness of their judgment is what horrifies her the most because it's so profoundly stupid. It's the only word. Stupid.

She gets a few dozen feet from the ladies' room door when suddenly Tom stops her. She startles, not having seen him approach. She'd simply been walking, eyes on the floor, wondering where the hell she was going to go to fall apart since the one place where women could find refuge was exactly where the trouble had originated. His hands are on her arms, and he's looking at her in extreme concern and outright alarm. Then, without preamble, he pulls her tighter to him and his mouth descends on hers for a very deep, intense kiss.

Agnes is too dazed to react to anything. She can barely register than Tom is kissing her when she feels the first flood of calm start to invade her body. She relaxes against him, her skin cools, and then warms again, this time pleasantly, and her stomach stops its awful grinding burn. 

Finally he releases her lips, but presses his forehead and nose against hers. "Come with me," he instructs, his voice firm but gentle. He straightens for her to nod and he takes her hand and leads her away from the main room.

They end up in what seems to be an unused coat room, or some kind of waiting lounge, a small room with some racks and hangars and a few couches. Tom pushes the door shut behind them, and then turns to her, that look of concern back on his face. 

"I saw you come out of the women's room," he says, talking in a low, dulcet tone to relax her. "Your face...I knew something had happened, I didn't know what. And I read somewhere that kissing releases oxytocin and it reduces stress and calms the body, and you just looked ready to pop, so I..."

"It's okay," Agnes finally manages. Her eyes are on his lips -- those lovely-shaped lips, thin but currently smeared with her fresh lipstick. She wants to reach up and wipe it off but Tom always shoos her hand away when she tries.

"Please tell me what happened," he says, rubbing his hands along her shoulders and her upper arms.

So she does. She tells him every detail, and she can't quite look at him during the more awful recountings even though whenever she tries to gloss it over, seeing him getting angrier and angrier, and he has to stop touching her, his fingers unable to stop curling into his palms and his knuckles whitening as he clutches them into fists, he insists she tell him every single ugly word. 

"Who was it?" he asks, his voice remarkably calm for the face he's currently making. 

"It doesn't matter," she says. 

"Agnes, who was it?"

"One of them was Catherine, the one who made the remarks about me taking you back, and the other, I didn't recognize."

"Point her out to me."

"Why? What are you going to do? Tom, no," she declares at his expression. "It...it just upset me. I'm much calmer now. It'll be fine."

"They both insulted you." She does not miss that he says not a single word about how they insulted him. 

"It's just gossip. What, are you going to beat up some random woman? You know you can't. And you can't tell her off, you know it will get around even if there aren't any reporters here tonight."

"And I should let it go? Some gossip that upset you so much you were ready to fall apart out there?" Tom cries, his voice suddenly much louder. He shuts his eyes and breathes, struggling for calm. "Agnes, show me who it was. I won't lose my cool, I promise. I just want to know."

Agnes folds her arms and shakes her head.

Tom sighs deeply, and then goes over to one of the couches and sits down, his knees spread wide with his hands dangling down between them. He rubs his forehead. "Look, I'm...I'm sorry, I'm sorry if you think I'm overreacting. I just...I worry that even though things are so different between us, so..." He looks up, the anger gone, replaced by some kind of wonder, a wonder that baffles him, befuddles him. "Every time I think we are so much better, something rears it ugly head and I'm...I'm worried of what it will do. I'm worried that it'll somehow drag us back to that dark place, and...I just want to protect you from it. It seems I just keep hurting you over and over as much as I'm doing everything I can to...to NOT be that man anymore, and..."

Ages walks over to him and perches on one of his legs, the fluff of her skirt providing the necessary padding. She wraps her arms around his neck. "I know, Tom," she whispers. "But you didn't do this. What they said was totally unfair, because of all you have done. I made sure I left them both completely speechless. I didn't waste any words on them because they weren't worth wasting them on."

"I am glad of that," Tom says, his big hand traveling up and down her spine. "They can't ever understand, can they? I mean, they just all get it wrong, don't they?"

She nods, feeling more relief that he understands. "They do. But we got it wrong too, for a really long time. So we can't be too hard on them."

"Is this how you felt?" he asks, looking up at her with his crystalline blue eyes. "Watching me stumble about in the dark when you knew all along that I was just blinding myself to the truth?"

"A little bit. A very little." She emphasizes by pressing forefinger and thumb together to represent a very small length. "I cared a hell of a lot more about you than either of us do about them."

"But they're just as bad! I mean, it's just like Chris. I suddenly find myself feeling sorry for everyone, all the time. I look at people and I see how they don't get it. How they're all so lost...and I think, well, they choose to be, but they couldn't, I just don't think people are that...thick!"

"You were pretty thick," she points out.

"I was, before you came along. After you did, I tried...you were telling me about our wedding reception before. And I know you feel you screwed up on our wedding night, but...that was my fault, too. I'd built your expectations too high. I'd spent so much time running around, tomcatting, that it never occurred to me how dysfunctional I'd become. Not until that night. I was so frustrated...not with you, I mean, before it had always been about me, but for the first time it was about someone else, and I thought if I could please you, if I could show you the pleasures of sex, that it would make us both happy, that it would be enough for both of us. But without that spiritual element, it was empty, wasn't it? That was why we had to do all that other stuff, had to keep pushing the envelope."

She smiles down at him. "You're not bored now? We've been pretty vanilla--"

"But that's just it, it hasn't been vanilla at all!" he says, shifting to bring her closer to him on his lap. "It's been...it's been beyond anything I've even thought it could be. And I feel like it can only get better."

"What made me so angry," Agnes tells him, "is that these people are seeing something that is actually quite beautiful and they're tearing it down out of ignorance and jealousy. Because they can't see it. They're completely blind to it. I was angry because I wanted to defend us, but I didn't speak because I knew they were incapable of understanding."

"But that's the sad thing, isn't it?" Tom says. "I mean, I don't want to go parading our... our relationship out there for everyone to see, but I wish there was some way they could understand, for their own sakes, not ours. Everyone would be so much happier--"

"Some people aren't ready to be happy," she says.

Tom stares at her for a long moment, absorbing her words. Then, very softly, he says, "I'm ready."

"We should go," she whispers against his cheek. She slides off his lap and he stands, but he catches her, cupping her face in both hands.

"Agnes," he says, staring at her very hard. "Thank you."

She raises her eyebrows slightly, and says, "For what?"

"For...for so much. For everything. For more than you could ever imagine. I could start listing things but we'd be here all night. But for loving me enough to not give up on me."

"Oh, that," she whispers with a little smile. 

His fingers slowly trace across her cheeks. "I didn't think I could love someone as much as I love you right now. I've already felt, several times, like I love you more than I ever have, but each time it leaves the rest behind. If this keeps up I may not be able to breathe in your presence much longer."

She takes in his words, and then says, "I'm going to sound really lame if I say the same thing right now, aren't I?"

He shakes his head. "No. Not at all."

"Okay then. I know exactly what you mean. And you know we didn't do it alone, right? We had help."

He nods and gives a shaky, slightly watery grin. 

"And it certainly isn't over yet. By a long shot. So please take me home so we can get on with it." Her teasing grin is met by his knowing one.

"Yes, I know you're ready to tear that corset off. You've been fidgeting for the last hour."

She reaches up and rubs her thumb along his lower lip, and shows him the pad stained with her own lipstick. "And you need to clean up. People will think get the wrong idea bout what we've been doing in here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in all seriousness -- I am not fond of the title of this story, I haven't really been for a while now, but I have no idea what to rename it to. So if anyone has any ideas, I would greatly appreciate it.


	38. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.

EPILOGUE

Meg and Oliver met in an RCIA program. She was a sponsor for a friend of hers, and Oliver was the one searching, not sure if he wanted to commit. Now they were getting married, and Fr. Greene thought it was a good idea for them to talk to Agnes and Tom. Meg was a die-hard cradle Catholic and Oliver was a bit more spiritually flighty, and it seemed they would be able to relate to each other's circumstances.

It wasn't uncommon for a married couple to help an engaged couple, but Tom was tense about it at first. The subsiding scandal still made him feel vulnerable, and he didn't want anyone approaching either Meg or Oliver and offer them money for tidbits on the Hiddlestons, so he insisted on an NDA before they started meeting for sessions. He realized very soon that he shouldn't have worried. Both Meg and Oliver were people of integrity, and the four of them got along like houses on fire from the first night.

"Agnes, can I ask you about something?" Meg says as she helps Agnes finish clearing up the kitchen from dinner. Agnes looks over her shoulder and instantly sees that whatever Meg wants to ask, it's making her uncomfortable. She's staring off into space, fiddling with her fingers, and not wiping the wet glass she has in one hand with the towel she clutches in the other.

Meg is willowy, with long brown hair. She makes her own clothes whenever she can, and pickets outside of abortion clinics, and can quote chapter and verse of the Catechism. She's a transplant, like Agnes, although it was Meg's parents who brought her overseas as a teen for career reasons. She's picked up several British pr0nunciations but is American enough to make Agnes feel at home. Her large eyes are made larger by her glasses, and she has a delicateness to her that gives Agnes a feeling that she's been hurt many times in her life. However, when she talks, she has a very straightforward, take-no-prisoners passion that lights her up, and her humor is very dry and sarcastic. Oliver obviously adores her, and while he is highly attentive he's careful not to smother. 

"What about, dear?" Agnes says, turning. She's twenty years older than Meg next month and feels rather motherly and protective toward the young woman.

Meg sighs, puts down the glass and the towel. "Look, I don't like talking about this stuff, but...well...I'm worried about...about the...the wedding night."

The night Meg speaks of is a month away. The two couples have been meeting since Agnes and Tom returned to London during the new year, after a brief trip to Agnes' parents' house, where Tom felt he needed to endure the crucible of reassuring her parents that their marital troubles were in the past, or at least he was back to being the faithful husband. It hadn't been an easy holiday, but in spite of the personality clashes, Agnes' parents had always respected that both her and her sister's marriages were each their own, and therefore, none of their business. Tom had been worried about pouring it on too thick when it came to showing Agnes affection in front of her family, and looking like he was trying too hard. Agnes told him to just do what he'd already been doing, she'd do the same, and they'd be fine. More or less, she'd been right.

She wasn't entirely sure she'd be up to giving couples advice to an engaged couple, but Dr. Summers had encouraged it. So far, she and Tom seem to be helping. But something like this...Agnes almost feels like an expert.

"Can you be a bit more specific?" Agnes pries gently. "I mean, it is something particular, or just general."

Meg squirms. "I...I don't know how to put it. I've read that women sometimes have...trouble getting...aroused."

Agnes nods. "Hormones, usually. Still happens to me, sometimes. Are you worried about how Oliver will react?"

Meg gives a little nod. "I'm just...what if I don't enjoy it as much as he does, and it becomes a chore for me? So many people have issues like that and I'm worried about being one of them."

Agnes motions for Meg to come over and they stand side by side at the sink. She hands Meg a dry towel and a dish to wipe. "Okay, listen," she says, her voice soft so they won't be overheard. "I'm not going to give you the gritty details, but on my wedding night...I was utterly terrified."

"You were?"

Remembering Meg's face when she'd reasoned that Tom Hiddleston and his wife were going to be giving them marital advice, Agnes has to smirk a bit at Meg's shock. 

"I was a virgin, I hadn't stuck my tongue in anybody's mouth, sure I'd gotten my boob handled once or twice but not willingly and not for any duration. All I knew about sex was what I'd read in erotic fiction and seen in movies. I'd seen one porno in my life. So the whole thing felt awkward and like I was suddenly being expected to participate in the Olympics when I'd never even played the sport before. And Tom, well, I got the impression he thought of himself as some kind of sexual athlete, but I found out later it was more about speed than technique for him. So when we were alone that night I had a bit of a nervous breakdown while I was changing in the bathroom."

"Oh, no," Meg says with sympathy. 

"Oh, yes. And Tom was so patient. He talked to me and got me to come out. And we went very slowly. Very. Slowly." The two exchange a slightly nervous giggle. "I think it was two hours before we hit the actual act itself." She heaves a bit sigh. "And we had a couple of false starts. I did. Tom was so patient, and he didn't get frustrated with me, he just kept...doing things to help me along, physically. And when it was over, I felt guilty."

"For what?"

"Making him work so hard. I worried it wasn't worth it. I didn't want it to become a chore for him, having to manage me and my issues, when before he probably got off at the drop of a hat. But the next time was easier, and the time after that easier still. It honestly is one of those things that takes practice. Because, Meg, you're not just having sex. You're not doing a chore that needs to be done this way or that for it to be right. You're expressing love, you're acting out your wedding vows. And that's what Tom was doing, and what I should have been doing. Took me longer to learn that than it did him, and both of us longer to realize that physically pleasuring each other was all well and good but not enough, without the emotional intimacy. Sex is...it's a physical manifestation of something that takes place spiritually. A binding not just of bodies but of souls -- that's its nature, even though it's been yanked out and paraded around, like a skeleton outside of a body. Of course you're nervous, your entire culture and mine has built up the wrong ideas in your head. Most people these days won't even talk about marriage to a person unless the know the sex is good, when the opposite is what's actually true. If you don't see fireworks that first time, it's okay. If he loves you, he won't measure the amount of things he has to do or that you have to do in return. You both need to talk and share and be open and relaxed with each other. It isn't even really about the sex. It's about you two being together."

Meg nods, falling quiet as she considers Agnes' words. "I'm worried about being compared to the other girls," she finally says in a whisper.

Agnes nods. "I know. I was the same." She lets out a long sigh and considers her next words. "I did say something to him, eventually. It's come up between us, over the years. And he's told me that with those other girls, it wasn't about love. It was never about love. I was the only one who was his wife, and with me, it was always different. Between a husband and wife, it's a sacred act, as it should be, where it belongs. So it was actually good for him that it was so different than it was with the others, because it reminded him of what he had committed himself to. If you're feeling concerned, when the time is nearer, you can talk to Oliver about it, you know. He loves you. He will understand."

"I wonder if he and Tom have talked about it," Meg murmurs.

"I can have him bring it up if you want," Agnes offers.

Meg shakes her head, cheeks crimson. "No, I don't want to..."

"Meg, it's okay," Agnes says. "We're here to offer advice. Tom can talk to him. I won't tell him what you've told me, it's personal. He'll understand."

"Let me think about it, okay?" Meg says, then squeezes Agnes' hand. "When are you two leaving?"

"Next week," Agnes says. "We've made plans to be back for the wedding, though. And you can call me if you need to talk about anything."

"Okay." Meg hugs her, an unusual gesture. Meg is not much of a toucher. "I have to get on home, early night tonight."

Tom and Agnes see them off. When Agnes returns to the couch, she pulls up the copies of the cover sheets the publishing company has sent. More than a thousand are expected to be pre-sold, so the request has come for five thousand. Agnes has carefully measured two hundred a day, and the company had to send her the pages far in advance in order for the signatures to be completed in time. She's on the very last set and wants to be done before they leave for Scotland on Friday.

Tom settles beside her, pulling up his book onto his lap. Tonight it's St. Thomas Moore, "The Four Last Things." He's been reading just about everything he can from the saint, and most times Agnes asks him to read out loud to her while she has to scribble her signatures. 

"Are you nervous?" she asks, noticing his distracted look.

"A bit," he sighs. "I'm just hoping this wasn't a mistake."

"How can it be a mistake?" she asks. "This part was practically given to you by Divine Providence."

Tom gives her a little smile. The remake of the film "A Man for All Seasons" just about dropped into his lap. The director had originally wanted him but at the time Tom hadn't been available, and the actor they had picked had dropped out for personal reasons. When it was rumored that Tom wasn't doing much outside of promoting his own short film, and wouldn't really have any thing major coming up until Cannes in May, they jumped on him, and he couldn't help but accept. 

"I usually get more time to mull over these things and prepare," he said. "I've barely had a month."

Agnes considers him. "Is there something else?" she asks, putting aside the long white sheets with her name half-scribbled on them. 

"What else would it be?" he asked with a frown.

"You're worried about it coming out," she says. "The whole Catholic thing. I mean, you haven't kept it a secret but it hasn't exactly been broadcast. Seems like everyone is just sort of...ignoring it. But with this part, the questions you might get asked..."

"I'm sort of surprised we aren't more sensitive about the subject," Tom says, flipping through the pages of his book. "This man was totally destroyed in every way because he wouldn't acknowledge that the king was the head of the church in England instead of the pope. And the C of E is what I was raised in -- this was it's origin. A long time ago I said about Coriolanus that instead of applauding the people who actually stand for something, we string them up. I was talking about Caius Marcius, but the truth is it applies more to St. Thomas Moore."

Agnes nods. "Yeah," is all she says, knowing there's more.

"I'm just worried the critics are going to turn it into something...insidious. Like I'm striking back at the church I left."

"Are you?"

"No, of course not. But..." he shook his head. "It used to be so easy to want to prove everybody wrong. I mean, not easy to actually do, but easy to convince myself not to be afraid of it. It's a bit harder these days."

She slides closer to him, and wraps her arms around his chest. "I'm not going to lie to you, Tom. The danger to your career is real. This Faith thing...it never comes without a price. It takes away what you thought you wanted and gives you what you really, truly need to be happy, in a real, lasting way. Hurts like hell in the process. But it is worth it. And, quite frankly, you got away with marrying me. Maybe they'll let this go, too."

"If they do, then I'm not going to be doing it right," he says ruefully. "And you know how I hate not doing things right."

"Yes, Mr. All or Nothing, I know."

\-------------

A week later Tom is on location in Scotland, walking through the tents to report to his make-up and hair stylists. The first set of shots is all outdoors, and the wilds here are the most industry free they can find, making it feel like the age of the Tudor Dynasty all over again. Agnes walks with him, mostly because he wanted her to, because he was feeling very tense that morning and needed a hand to hold -- literally. She knows as soon as he gets rolling, he'll become absorbed in the job he was made to do. 

They talk as he settles into the make-up chair and they get to know the people that will be in his face -- again, literally -- for the next six weeks. There are tests to be run, wardrobe to try on, and a ton of work to keep everyone busy. Fortunately, he's scheduled to have a break around lunch, and Agnes has brought her laptop and left it in his trailer so she can keep herself busy until then. Now that "An Honorable Man" is well on its way to a publication date, she can work on the project she'd started when inspiration had sidetracked her -- a follow-up novella to the original series that had made her famous, and brought Angela into her life. 

As they finish with Tom's make-up, Agnes gives his hand a squeeze. "You all right if I head back to the trailer?"

"I want you to see the wardrobe, first," he says. "It's pretty impressive."

She goes with him to the long, double-wide trailer that houses the wardrobe department. But the second the door opens, a petite woman with dark hair cut in a pixie style turns and sees them, her eyes going wide.

"Clare," Tom says.

Clare turns very, very pale. "T..Tom," she stammers. "I...I heard you were...you were here..."

Tom's face has gone slightly red underneath all the foundation. "What are you doing here?" he asks, voice controlled but still simmering with anger.

"Working," she says, and her eyes drift to Agnes.

Agnes is frozen. She wants to run, having remembered how this woman humiliated her. She wants to pounce, wanting revenge. And she wants to grab Tom and drag him away, make him quit this film and not have anything to do with her.

But she take a breath and does nothing but stand there. Her eyes, eventually, drift to Tom. 

"Oh!" comes the voice from between the racks of clothes. "Oh, dear..." The older woman, in her late fifties at least, comes out with a richly colored garment. "Hello, Tom...I'm sorry, you're a bit early. I thought we had a few more minutes. Clare is...Clare is just leaving."

Clare nods, eyes down. Then she scoots out the door and disappears around the corner.

Tom turns to the other woman. Madeline worked with him when he did the Henry Triad for The Hollow Crown, and he's encountered her on and off over the years, and they are on friendly terms -- or were, until this moment.

"What is she doing here?" Tom asks.

"Working," Madeline replies. She sighs, removing the black glasses perched on her nose. "Look, Tom, I know about what happened. But she lost her job after that scandal and she's been working for me since. She's good, she's just very young and a bit stupid, and I thought with some guidance she would become less foolish. So far she's been great. But then you signed onto this production -- and I have to tell you, I know you're a big star, but she was here first. And I didn't want to just fire her. It would have...it would have been cruel! So I thought I could just keep her out of your way. I'm sorry, you won't see her again."

Tom turns his blazing eyes to Agnes. But Agnes is not angry. She doesn't know precisely what it is, she always felt a bit sorry for Clare -- until she had publicly disgraced her. 

Seeing the looks exchanged between the couple, Madeline clears her throat. "Look, why don't I just go check on her. You two can have a few minutes to yourselves here. Seems like you need it."

The door closes behind her and Tom and Agnes stare at each other. Then, abruptly, Tom walks over to her and wraps his arms around her, pulling her close and tight. His arms cross along her back, his fingers curling around her arms from behind.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Fine," she says. "I was just...surprised." She pulls away a bit, gives him a little grin. "Careful, don't get your make-up smeared on me."

"How can you be..." he shakes his head. "You're being too calm."

"Why shouldn't I be?" she says. Words form in her head and she doesn't know how to say them without it sounding incredibly painful. It isn't Clare who did the damage to their marriage. Clare wouldn't have been in the position to mortify her if Tom hadn't given her that power. 

"Well then maybe it's just me," he says, his teeth still grinding.

"Why are you angry?" she asks softly.

He widens his eyes. "You don't know?"

"Do you?"

He shakes his head. "I...that woman made our lives miserable."

Agnes tilts her head down a bit. "Did she?"

Tom reels back a bit as if struck. Then his face colors again and he looks down in shame. 

"Tom," Agnes says, lightly getting her fingers under his chin so he meets her eyes. "I'm not angry because I've already forgiven you. My problem isn't with her. I know she was horrible, but...but it was never about her. I'm not one of those women to go after the mistress, I never was. It was always about me and you. And you and I...we're so good. So why let her ruin it? She's working."

"She's not supposed to be anywhere near me," Tom says, petulant. 

"You're angry at her."

"Yes!"

"Why? In defense of me? Or of yourself?"

This stalls him. He flusters, looks away, and then finally releases Agnes, who he had been holding by the upper arms throughout the conversation. "I guess...I guess I never really dealt with that."

"Why are you angry at her?" Agnes asks.

"Because I feel like she took advantage of me," Tom says, turning back to her. "But...but it wasn't her, was it? I mean, she did, but if it hadn't been her, it would have been someone else, I suppose. And when I see her I'm reminded of the absolute lowest point of my life and I don't want to be reminded of it." He looks away again, features marred by a scowl.

Agnes reaches out, pats his chest, and gives him a smile. "You have to forgive her."

His head swings back to her. "Forgive her?"

"Why not? You've forgiven yourself. Forgiveness doesn't mean letting her do it again. And yes, you should probably avoid her, just for discretion's sake."

"You don't think I would--"

"No, of course not," Agnes stops the thought before it can fully develop. "But still, you forgive her not for her sake, but for yours."

"Have you forgiven her?" he asks, a bit challenging.

"Sometimes. I feel very forgiving right now. Tomorrow I might want to find her and trip her on her way to lunch."

He can't help it. At her deadpanned humor Tom cracks a grin. 

"I love you," he says, heartfelt.

"I love you. This is a test, Tom. That's the problem with acquiring a virtue. God demands you use it, all the time. It's the only way to make it stick."

He draws a deep breath. "I don't like it. I don't like it at all."

"I know."

"Will you...come visit? More often?"

"I'm not going to babysit you, Tom. I trust you. I think you can trust yourself. You don't have to trust her, just forgive her. And I'm always with you, even when I'm not. Just like you're with me."

He steps closer, embraces her again. "I just...feel ashamed. All over again."

"I know." She reaches up, strokes his hair very lightly, not wanting to muss it. "It's going to be okay, Tom. Just remember I love you."

He squeezes her tightly. She can feel his gratitude in his embrace. And then he kisses her lightly because of the make-up on his face, but his lips linger extra long. "I will see you at lunch," he says. 

She nods. "I'll see you at lunch."

He smiles as Madeline returns to the trailer. "All good?" she asks.

Tom grins at her. They get to the business of getting him into his costume. After a few minutes Tom is laughing with Madeline over some old memories. Agnes finds the right moment and tells Tom she's slipping out. When Madeline turns her back, Tom grabs Agnes' hand and pulls her back to him, and his teeth nip the shell of her ear before he whispers;

"See you at lunch."

They exchange a meaningful look.

Scotland in the early morning is quite beautiful. Agnes smells the freshness of the air as she steps out of the wardrobe trailer and heads back to Tom's personal one. The sky is a clear blue, the sun is coming up over the trees in the distance. She has some time to write, maybe take a little nap. Tom may be too tired for anything vigorous, or too exhilarated to concentrate, but either way, he'll want a cuddle when he gets back. That's his way. 

\-----------------

Agnes stares up into her husband's face. "What was that?" she pants.

Sweat has dripped down his cheeks and onto her face, onto the pillow on either side of her head. It mingles with her own, like tears. Then she realizes that it isn't just sweat. It is tears, his and hers both.

He shakes his head slightly, the drops shimmering. "I..." he gasps, disengaging their intimate connection as the last of it passes. "I've never...that was..."

All words fail. It wasn't just an orgasm, she knows that. It was something else. The only physical description for it was if some heavenly being had descended and shot a spear through Tom's back and into her chest, pinning them both together. Along that spear must have run some kind of liquid lightning, filling their bodies to overflowing. She'd lost track of all of her other senses, only able to float helplessly in that sensation that was more of an emotion than feeling, with only Tom's blue eyes filling her vision and telling her without a doubt he was feeling the exact same thing.

"For two seconds I swear to God we were floating off the mattress," Tom gasps as he struggles to pull his weight off of his wife. They roll slightly, eyes still unable to leave the other.

It wasn't physical. The physical pleasure had always been good between them, so that was rarely surprising. But something else had joined it. Something shaking them both down into the cores of their souls. 

They lie facing each other, coming down from the high, panting. Heartbeats slow and tender caresses resume. Tom presses his head into her hand as she plays with his hair. They can't stay up too much longer, Tom has an early call the next morning. The weeks have passed quickly and now they are back in London, filming at the sites where the events from the movie actually took place. Soon Agnes will be whisked off on a book tour and after Tom finishes the film, he'll be able to join her. It's not much of a question between them about staying together when they can. She'll be done with promotion before Cannes so they'll both be free to enjoy some time in France. 

"I was thinking about New Mexico," Tom says, and she has a hard time concentrating with the various paths his fingers make along her skin.

"What about New Mexico?" she asks.

"Remember Starhill Inn?" he asks. "The cottages with all the modern amenities but no televisions or stereos were allowed? You could hire a guide to show you the different sights in the sky--"

"Yeah, I remember," she murmurs. It was their second anniversary trip. They'd spent the days hiking and cooking and reading to each other and their nights touring the stars on a giant telescope, then lying out and watching the Milky Way bands across the sky and using their phones to find all the different constellations and other things that could be seen with the naked eye.

It had been a time for them to reconnect, before the first seeds of discord had been planted. Before her miscarriage. That may have been when she got pregnant, she realizes. That was when all the cracks that had been relatively small before widened under the pressure. 

But it's the past, she reminds herself. Recovery is an act of will.

Agnes wills herself to trust Tom. And Tom has, thus far, proven himself worthy of that trust. Even when she starts to worry, when her fears crawl out of their dark spaces and whisper things into her ears. Even when she lies awake sometimes and wonders when the other shoe will drop, that they can't maintain this level forever, it's simply not humanly possible. Even when Tom smiles at everyone and hugs everyone, and is photographed with woman after woman with his arm around their waist. 

She has had to remind herself that things are different. And they are different. She has, at times, had to make herself forgive him again.

She usually doesn't tell him, but occasionally she does.

And she finds he has fears, as well. That at times, he knows he needs more attention than he's getting, but has to remember he can't have all of her all the time, that he can't let the competitive actor diva that resides in him affect their relationship -- especially when it comes to professional success. The new novel has brought Agnes to new levels of exposure, reminding the world what made her so popular when she first emerged on the scene, and has required her to hire a temporary assistant, a young man named Caden who Tom claims looks at Agnes with "googly eyes" and occasionally makes him jealous, sometimes knowing more of her schedule that he does. 

The continuous talk and the magazine articles and the numerous reviews all discuss the woman behind the words and the background of the novel, as it was inevitable that the public scandal would be echoed in the characters. But Agnes is always careful and says that every writer uses their own story as a basis for all their other stories, and never discloses personal details. There have been many requests for a joint interview, both of them telling their story, but they agree that even if they want to do such a thing, they are not quite ready. And they know when they do, it has to be for the right reasons.

Tom says, "I was thinking, maybe, we could plan a little trip after you finish the tour, and I finish this film. Just take a little break. Check in with each other."

She returns his cheeky little grin. "Maybe we could go find White Sands, do one of those desert walks."

"It's not sand, right? It's mica." 

"That's what we've been told. Although that little bottle of it I brought back looks like sand to me."

"You weren't supposed to take any, you naughty girl."

"Hey, I can't help what got caught in my socks. Even if I did shove a bunch of it in there."

Tom pulls her in tightly and kisses her, several times. She can feel him drifting -- she won't be long after, even if she did get a nap in this afternoon. 

"Go to sleep, baby," she whispers against his lips. "You gotta work in the morning."

"Mmmm," is his reply, looking up at her adoringly through long blinks of his eyelashes. Finally, his eyes don't open again. 

His hold hasn't relaxed. Agnes can feel every inch of him, long limbs and smooth skin, his alternating softness and firmness. She knows her body is nothing like his but feels the contrasts as complimentary as she has been nearly imprinted into him as the years have gone by. 

And best of it, she can feel his love in how he holds her, the way the tip of his nose presses against the underside of her jaw. How his chest rises and falls with hers. How their heartbeats have synced in the last few minutes. How his fingertips twitch, occasionally, against the skin of her shoulders and back. How his breath caresses her neck, and the smell of him envelops her.

Agnes smiles before she follows him into slumber. There really is nothing better than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I humbly take my leave of you. I'll still be posting drabbles from HOAV. I want a break from writing about real life Tom but sometimes the muse doesn't give a flip if you want to write or not. Thank you for reading this story. I've had a lot of revelations and growth from writing it. I can see from the beginning I was just as much in the dark as Agnes about many things, but both she and I have learned and grown. I shall be praying for all of you. God bless you and Mary keep you.


End file.
